Covenant
by BullDemon
Summary: A chance, no matter how negligible, is still a chance. This is a fact not lost on the Machine. If anyone could survive the final showdown with Samaritan, it would be John Reese. He just didn't know it at the time.
1. Chapter 1

Greetings All.

I want to start by saying I was a total wreck after John Reese's death in the POI finale. I mourned his loss hard for over a week. Yes, it made sense for John to make such a choice – to sacrifice himself to allow his friends to live. Some have said he always had a bullet with his name on it. It was a heroic death – very honorable and selfless. But I don't think it happened.

There were moments in Season 5 that were visited once, but never returned to. Also, John's deal with the Machine – to take the dive if it ever came between him and Harold – wouldn't have been one sided. The Machine was always running simulations and calculating the best option for asset survival. Even a negligible chance was a chance. It knew a standoff with Samaritan was coming and began taking steps to minimize the losses early on.

There was also the "mysterious motorcycle man" scene cut from the finale that Michael Emerson teased and the producers allowed to reach the press. Could it have been someone other than John? Sure – but who? I'm not convinced John died on that building. I think he beat the odds that were stacked against him. He didn't do it alone, of course, but he did do it and this is my take on how.

One final note: I've never posted a work in progress story before. I prefer to finish a piece prior to posting, but I've had some encouragement to try it this way. I'll try to keep my updates as close to weekly as I can. I have another piece that is nearly done, so I'm technically working on two at once.

Those of you familiar with my first POI story "The Dynamics of Risk" will recognize an original character from it. There were many requests to bring him back so…I did. Any errors are mine – and many thanks to my beta on this: justayellowunbrella.

Thanks for reading and bearing with me. Feedback is, well, you know. ~ Bander

Gus "Ozzy" Oswald paused mid-step and braced himself against the handrail. In the eerie quiet of the stairwell, he could hear the gunshots that were being exchanged several levels up on the roof. To the former combat medic, it was a familiar situation. After two tours in the Middle East, he'd helped to clear dozens of buildings, many that had been situated deep in the war zone.

 _It sounds like a war zone…_ he thought, training his weapon's sights on the next landing. _Thank God it doesn't smell like one too…_

He felt his partner tap his shoulder to alert him of his presence. Bret Tanner, a fellow Army Vet, had had his back in dangerous situations like this for nearly a decade. They knew each other better than they knew themselves, often acting as if they were of a single mind. It was this unique bond coupled with their skills, experience, and solid nerve that made them the secret weapon of the security unit known as Raptor. Although they occasionally backed up the city SWAT teams, Raptor was primarily employed by private sector clients needing a high-risk, high profile engagement ended quickly and discreetly.

Gus glanced over at Bret. The other man flashed all five fingers on his right hand, closed them into a fist, and splayed them open again. _Five minutes, fifty seconds until impact…_

He gave a curt nod to acknowledge the update and turned his attention back to the landing above them. Time wasn't in their favor, but they had to be careful; narrow stairwells like this were called kill boxes for a reason. Confident the way was clear, he resumed climbing.

There weren't many details about the mission, but there seldom were. Raptor's assignments were filtered through the team's lieutenant, who then passed on only what the infiltrating members would need to accomplish their task. It helped maintain the integrity of the people who hired them and didn't bog down the tactical process with extraneous information.

Gus reached the next landing and pivoted to get a clear view of the one above them. Satisfied it was unoccupied, he continued up the stairs.

Their orders had come in less than two hours prior. The entire twelve-man team was deployed to the site, but he and Bret were the only two selected to go inside. The mission was an extraction. They had seen a photograph of their target: a tall, slender man with dark hair. His name was John, and he was a former solider. He would be wearing a suit. All others were to be neutralized. The chance for civilian casualties had the potential to be high, but the building had been evacuated prior to their arrival and headcounts taken. All personnel had been accounted for, which only left the target and the gunmen inside.

So far, they hadn't encountered much resistance. Two heavily armed men had met them at the second story landing and other at the fifth. All three had been swiftly dealt with without incident. Gus had expected the place to be guarded well; either the aggressor was overly confident in their gunmen's skills to stop the target or the ones that had been assigned to guard the upper levels had gone to the roof to join in the firefight. _Or got cold feet and deserted…_

The sound of gunfire grew more intense as they got closer to the roof access. They could just make out the quiet report of a handgun under the rapid clatter of the automatic weapons. The shots from the pistol were spaced out, each one interrupting a steady burst from one of the larger guns. _That must be our man…_ he thought, noting the sign on the wall that indicated only two levels remained before they reached the roof.

No details had been given about what their target was doing or why he was being hunted. The satellite on top of the building suggested it might have something to do with communications – something of national security perhaps – but such specifics were rarely pertinent to Raptor's missions. The bottom line was someone wanted John dead and had gone to great lengths to make sure it happened. More importantly, though, somebody else wanted him alive.

The rattle of gunfire halted as the two men approached the door leading to the roof. Gus looked to his partner, who flashed four fingers, a fist, and then flashed three more. _Four minutes, thirty seconds until impact…this is going to be tight…_

Timing was key to the success of any mission and this one took it to the extreme. Waiting for them at the end of the rapidly approaching deadline was a missile that had gone rogue from a carrier off the coast. It had set its sights on the satellite at the top of the building and all efforts to stop it had failed. Their orders were to be on the eighth floor landing or lower when the timer reached zero.

The silence was broken by an eruption of automatic gunfire. It spurred both men into action, Bret bringing his weapon up to his shoulder as Gus threw open the door. Bursting out onto the roof, their perception of time slowed and their vision tunneled. In the breadth of a few seconds, they surveyed their surroundings. Three gunmen were advancing slowly toward the back of the building, their weapons spewing a deadly stream of bullets toward a man slumped against the fall wall. By the way he was dressed, they knew he was their target.

Without hesitation, the Raptor members opened fire, dropping all three gunmen in almost perfect unison. The absence of gunfire allowed for the sirens and shouts to rise from the streets below, but they barely heard it. Across the roof, they saw their target lying in a pool of blood. They watched as his head slowly listed to the left and then became still.

 _Too late…_ Gus thought, feeling the bitterness of loss even for a man he didn't know. _If they'd let us in the building sooner – even five minutes – we could have prevented this. It didn't have to be…_ He had to force himself to stop before his own cynicism could get the better of him. He'd been in the business long enough to know that the adage 'too little, too late' was just as prevalent in the private sector as it was in the military.

"Time?" he asked of his partner.

Bret glanced at his watch. "Three fifty. You want to start back down?"

"No. Not yet. Keep a look out for reinforcements. I think we at least owe his family a body to bury." Gus engaged the safety on his rifle and started across the roof. Additional bodies were scattered about, each with a single shot through the head or neck. It was obvious their target had been an expert marksman, the accuracy of his shots having literally stopped his pursuers dead in their tracks. _If he'd had more ammo, he might have made it out…_

Ammunition was one thing their target's enemy seemed to have had plenty of. A large number of casings littered the rooftop, readily bringing to mind the term "overkill." In fact, there was so much spent ammo on the ground, he was amazed John hadn't been cut in half. He dipped down mid stride and scooped up several of the brass casings. They looked ordinary enough at a distance, but up close he could see small differences that peaked his curiosity. Deciding they warranted a closer look, he tucked them in his pocket for later.

He approached John slowly and stood for a moment, looking at the laptop sitting in a briefcase above the man's head. The screen was blank, so he paid it no interest and crouched down beside him. The clock was ticking, but there was always time to honor the dead. He would never know what this man in a suit had come up here to do, but it had obviously been something important enough to die for.

Gus looked at the blood, unaffected by the sight of gore after so many years in the field. _That's odd…_ he thought. _There are no kill shots…_ Most of the damage seemed to be concentrated along John's right side, his arm and leg having taken the brunt of it. Blood had stained his white shirt, but it was mostly seepage from wounds concealed beneath his jacket. There were no entry wounds on the center of the man's chest, neck, or head. There were many ways to kill a person; however bleeding them out usually wasn't the method of choice when trying to stop someone from doing something you didn't want them to do.

He glanced over at the nearest dead gunmen. His armor, outfit, and weapons strongly suggested he was part of some paramilitary organization, but the group's tactics left him wondering. _For guys looking this legit, kill shots should be protocol…either they were all shooting range dropouts or they really weren't the elite force they appeared to be…_

"Three twenty."

Bret's update snapped Gus back into the present. He could ponder the mysteries of the mission later; right now, they had a job to do and a rather literal deadline to meet.

He reached out and touched John's neck. So certain that the man was dead, it took a moment for him to accept that the rapid throbbing he felt was real. _No way…no freaking way…_ He dropped his hand to John's chest, feeling as it rose and fell with his weak respirations. _This is impossible…he can't still be alive…_

But he was. Their extraction mission turned recovery had just become a rescue.

 _Well he's not going to be much longer if you don't get this bleeding stopped…_ Gus's hands dropped to his waist and began to undo the webbed belt he always wore. "Hey, Tanner!"

"Three minutes," Bret called back, assuming it was what his partner wanted.

"That's great! I need your belt!"

"My what?"

"Your belt!" He had slipped his own belt high around John's right leg and pulled it as tight as he could to form a tourniquet. "This guys alive!"

"You're kidding?"

"I don't know how or for how long, but yeah, he's got a pulse." He grabbed for the belt the moment he felt it flop over his shoulder. "I need Combat Gauze and open me a couple of ETD's."

"Ozzy, there's not time for…"

"Yes, there is," Gus replied firmly as he looped the belt around John's right arm and pulled it tight.

"All right," Bret muttered, reaching into his vest for the items Gus had requested. "But just know I'm going to be royally pissed at you for getting us blown up…"

Gus smirked at his partner's morbid sense of humor. With the tourniquets fastened, he reached for his knife and slid the blade up through John's shirt. _These are small caliber wounds…_ he thought, looking at the sluggishly bleeding holes that marred the man's torso. _But the hostiles were using semi-automatics at close range. He should've been blown apart…_

Bret tossed a package of gauze to Gus. "Two fifty-five," he said, tearing open one of the compression bandages from his kit.

"Plenty of time…" the former medic muttered. "Plenty of time…" Hastily stretching on a pair of gloves, he hunched over John and began packing the special clotting gauze into the worst of the wounds.

When his partner reached back over his shoulder, Bret wordlessly deposited the trauma dressing in his waiting hand and began preparing the next one. They'd done this sort of thing enough times in the past to know the process without the need for conversation. They'd also done this enough times for him to know that the man Gus was working so intently to save would most likely be dead before they reached the ground. He glanced at his watch and grimaced at the rapidly diminishing time limit. _Assuming_ we _even make it to the ground…_

Gus finished wrapping the first bandage around John's chest, applying as much pressure as he dared to the gauze packed wounds. The Combat Gauze clotted blood well on its own, but compression made the product even more effective. He held his hand out for the next bandage and repeated the process, firmly binding the packed wounds further down on the man's side.

"Ozzy, we're at two minutes."

 _This'll just have to do…_ Gus thought, hoping he'd been able to slow enough of the bleeding to keep John alive. Leaning forward, he hauled the unconscious man into a fireman's carry and stood with a grunt. John was tall and lean, but he was also very solid. Suddenly the prospect of hurrying down seventeen flights of stairs with two hundred pounds of deadweight across his shoulders didn't seem as effortless as it had several minutes before. _I'm getting too old for this…_

"Take point, watch for hostiles. Let's move."

The two men headed for the entryway, leaving the carnage of the firefight behind. Bret reached the door first. He threw it open and scanned the stairwell, finding it to be as empty as they had left it. "We're clear. Let's go."

Gus carefully maneuvered himself through the doorway, taking care not bump John as he went. They had less than two minutes to descend at least seven flights of stairs to be safe from the impending blast. _Piece of cake…_ "Move."

Bret started down the stairs. He kept his eyes largely forward to watch for hostiles, but threw frequent glances over his shoulder to make sure Gus was keeping up. At the bottom of every landing, he'd check his watch. Time seemed to be ticking away impossibly fast and he began to seriously doubt that they were going to be clear of the blast zone.

Sweat was streaming down Gus's face and his neck as he labored under John's weight. He knew the man was still alive – he could feel his racing heartbeat through his armor and hear his infrequent, liquidy gasps for air. _That's new…_ he thought, shifting his grip to get a more secure hold. _A lung must have been nicked…It's going to take an act of God to bring him through this…_

The men passed by a wall plaque marking the ninth floor. They were almost there.

Bret checked his watch. "Thirty seconds."

"Keep moving," Gus panted, ignoring the angry twinge he felt in his back.

They reached the landing between the seventh and eight floors when Bret's watch entered into the final countdown. He stopped and turned to help his partner, concerned the blast could knock him off his feet. When the missile hit, the two men hugged the wall as the entire structure shook around them. Bits of plaster and masonry rained down from the levels above, and the shriek of twisting metal could be heard over the din of the explosion.

"You good?" Bret asked, shouting in Gus's ear to be heard over the groaning building and bray of the fire alarm.

"Yeah! There should have been enough boom in that thing to level this building and half the block along with it! How the hell are we still standing?"

"They don't pay us enough to think about crap like that! Come on!"

With the building trembling around them, they resumed their descent at a hurried, but less frantic pace.

 _There's no way the missile that struck this building was at full power. It felt more like a near miss or a premature detonation than a direct hit…_ Gus thought, unable to dismiss the oddities of the mission as easily as his partner. _The amount of ammo, the small caliber wounds, the missile's lack of power…something just isn't adding up…_

A loud cracking sound came from somewhere overhead. Seconds later, a piano sized chunk of concrete smashed to the ground directly behind them. They may have escaped the missile blast itself, but they were still in danger. There was no way of knowing how badly the building had been damaged or how long it would continue to stand.

Once they reached the ground floor, their instructions were to take the north corridor and exit through the second fire door. There would be a black cargo van with an eagle on it waiting for them in the alley.

 _This guy needs a Life Flight to Bellevue, not to be stuffed into the back of some van…_ Gus thought as he stepped onto the middle landing of the fifth floor. The body of the guard they had taken out earlier was piled up in the corner where they had left him. Like his buddies on the second floor landing, he had been preoccupied with his phone and never saw them coming. _Another inconsistency…the LT would have our head_ AND _ass if we were caught doing such a thing while engaged…who were these people working for…?_

Bret stopped at the top of the forth floor landing to give his partner a chance to catch up. Small piles of concrete and other debris littered the floor, adding to their already tricky descent. As Gus approached, he caught sight of the trickle of blood coming from the corner of John's mouth. _Not good…_ "Mr. Suit still with us?"

Gus nodded, lacking the oxygen required to speak. When he'd caught up, he flapped his hand toward the stairs, signaling his partner to go on. If he stopped now, he seriously doubted he'd be able to get himself moving again. The staircase seemed perpetual. If it weren't for the wall plaques counting down the levels, he would have believed they were just going around in circles.

He recalled the times during his military career that he'd carried a wounded man across his shoulders for miles. It had seemed so effortless in those days. Now several decades later, his back, knees, and shoulders were all complaining about the extra weight they had to bear. It was easy to understand why the veteran soldiers in his unit had left the carrying to the younger members.

He was getting tired, but it wouldn't stop him from getting John to the evacuation point. He wasn't a quitter, and he could tell the man he was carrying wasn't either. Hardening himself against his body's protests, he quickened his pace and caught up with Bret on the next landing. Once again they were racing the clock, only this time the consequences of being late seemed even more dire than they had with the impending missile.


	2. Chapter 2

Greetings,

Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I may have been too optimistic about my ability to post once a week, especially the chapters that require research. I'm going to try to stay on top of it the best I can, even if it means putting my other story aside for the time being ~ Bander

* * *

The blare of a car horn woke Steve Maxwell from a dead sleep. The doctor sat up with a jolt and looked around, momentarily drawing a blank as to where he was or what he was doing there. _Taxi…_ he thought, seeing the familiar setup with the meter, driver's photo, and the tattered "Thank You for Not Smoking" sign in several languages posted on the back of the seat.

He leaned forward and gazed out the window. _This isn't San Francisco…_ Skyscrapers, storefronts, crowds of people, and the occasional tree; he could have been in the middle of any large metropolitan hub in the nation. The cityscape around him was familiar; it just wasn't the one he was accustomed to seeing as of late.

Steve felt something slip from his chest and looked down. A pile of note cards had fallen from their resting place and scattered on the seat beside him. He picked them up, looked at the words scrawled on them, and instantly remembered where he was and why. _I'm in New York for a trauma medicine conference. I've been asked to lead a talk on the special needs of a multiple gunshot victim…_ He looked at the cards covered in his terrible handwriting and frowned. The thought of standing up in front of a crowd of strangers made his stomach sour. _I didn't want to come – I hate public speaking – but the director insisted it had to be me…_

Another horn blared nearby, making him jump. He looked over his shoulder to see another taxi trying to force its way in between a pickup truck and a city bus. Californians weren't the world's safest drivers, but New York commuters were in a special class all of their own. He sat back with a sigh, content to let his cabbie navigate the war zone that was the midday rush.

He hadn't been back to New York in several years. It wasn't that he didn't like the place; he'd just been…busy. After a politically motivated cover up at the hospital he'd worked for had left him holding the blame for a fatal mistake, he'd been shut out of the medical world and left to fend for himself. He'd been able to make ends meet as a bicycle courier and a bouncer, but it had been a miserable existence. Until that fateful night during his break at the bar…

 _John and Harold…_ He hadn't thought about them for some time. He knew he should have; after all, they were the ones who helped get him back on his feet again. Harold had cleared his record of the false blemish and found him the teaching job at Stanford Hospital. John had reminded him how much he missed medicine and given his shaken confidence the boost it so desperately needed.

 _Maybe I should try to find them while I'm in town. We could grab a bite to eat and catch up…_ Steve frowned. Locating the two men might prove to be more difficult than he thought, and it had nothing to do with the nearly two million people living in Manhattan. Neither had been overly forthcoming when it came to personal information. He had their names, general location, and knew they worked in private security of some kind.

 _And even that information could have been false…_ He doubted it though. For as secretive as they were, both John and Harold seemed to be genuinely good people with a driving passion to help others. If he'd learned anything over the years, it was that just because someone had something to hide, it didn't automatically mean they were up to no good. They'd also had the support of two NYPD homicide detectives, and if that didn't validate their work, nothing would.

 _Joss Carter…_ Steve thought, unaware of the small grin that had appeared on his lips. When she'd first climbed into the back of the ambulance that night, he'd had no idea what to expect. It didn't take long for her to win him over though, and he'd been pleasantly surprised by her professionalism and ability to perform under stress. She'd been a dependable second pair of hands during the delicate process of stitching John's wounds, and later helped wrangle the often temperamental man during his recovery.

 _She might be easier to locate than the men if she's still with the department…I should invite her to dinner too…a_ homemade _dinner…_

Another horn sounded, this time from within the taxi he had engaged. He looked out at the snarl of traffic that was surrounding them. "What's going on?" he asked, leaning forward to better see out the windshield.

"Police barricade," the man replied in heavily western accent.

"Why?"

"I don't know. An accident maybe – I can't see that far." The cabbie sighed and turned off his meter. "We could be here awhile. Are you in a hurry? It may be faster to get out and walk if you are."

The conference didn't officially start until the following afternoon, and Steve had no reservations about missing the inaugural dinner later that evening, so time wasn't an issue. "I'm in no rush," he replied, sinking back against the seat. All around them, commuters jockeyed for position within the gridlock. Horns honked, voices were raised, and angry gestures were exchanged. _And some things will_ never _change…_

Steve picked up the note cards scattered on the seat and began to put them back in order. He hadn't planned on writing anything down, but an unforeseen layover in Detroit had left him with three hours to kill, and few options beyond the bar for entertainment. After a couple of drinks, he'd holed up in a corner of the terminal and made notes of speaking points and key topics. He had little intention of using them, but figured they'd be good to have on hand should he freeze upon stepping up to the lectern.

"Huh – what is that?" the cabbie muttered.

"What's what?" Steve leaned forward just in time to catch a flash of light streaking across the sky. Seconds later, an explosion rocked the city, instantly silencing the angry chorus of horns and shouts. "What the hell…?"

"A missile. A missile just struck a building! How did a missile fly into the city?" the cabbie demanded, clearly shaken by what they had just seen. "Are we under attack?"

"I don't know…" Steve watched as black smoke began to billow into the sky. He felt bewildered by what was playing out in front of them, but he wasn't overtaken by panic like the driver. They were too far back to see which building it was or how badly it had been damaged, however there was little doubt it had been destroyed. He scanned the horizon, searching for more missiles and seeing none. _I thought the government had safeguards in place to prevent this sort of thing? Someone must have seen it coming…why wasn't it shot down?_

He'd been on-call when the Towers fell in September of 2001. Wave after wave of casualties had been brought into the ER with injuries ranging from minor to mortal. He'd worked nearly nonstop during the first seventy-two hours, saving those he could and drawing sheets over those he couldn't. He'd never seen anything of such a horrific magnitude before that day or since. And now, as he looked up at the burning sky, he couldn't help wondering if it was going to happen again.

Steve turned to look out the side window when he heard a woman shouting. People were abandoning their vehicles – some headed toward the strike zone, but most were hurrying away. Many were on their phones, either trying to make calls or filming the disaster in fleeting glances as they fled. They all shared the same look of terror, shock, and confusion; a look he recognized from that ill-fated morning nearly fifteen years earlier.

He heard moaning from the front seat. "Hey, you all right?"

The cabbie muttered something in a language Steve didn't understand.

"Look, I don't think we're under attack. More missile would have come by now if we were. It must have been a fluke – a programming error or maybe a solar flare…"

More moaning and mumbled words came from the driver. Steve decided he was either praying or in some sort of traumatic shock. He was about to suggest they get out and see if there was anyone that needed help, when a loud knocking on his window made him jump. A clean cut young man in a dark blue uniform was standing on the other side, his expression a mixture of urgency, expectance, and apprehension. Steve reached for the window crank on the door and rolled it down.

"Dr. Steven Maxwell?" the young man asked, having to shout to be heard over the sirens and shouts that filled the air.

"Yes…wait…how do you know…?"

"There's no time to explain, sir. Please come with me."

Steve hesitated for a moment. _How does he know who I am? How did he know I was even here? What does he want?_

"Sir, please, I'll explain what I can when we get to the van, but we need to move. The target is on his way down now. We don't have much time to prepare." As if to prove he wouldn't take no for an answer, he pulled open the passenger side door and began to walk away.

"Prepare for what?" Steve demanded, levering his tall frame out of the back of the cab. He was about take after him when he remembered he still owed the babbling man in the driver's seat money. He began fumbling for his wallet when he felt a hand on his arm.

"The cabbie will be taken care of, as will your luggage in the trunk. Please, Dr. Maxwell, we don't have much time."

Confused, apprehensive, and just a little curious, Steve relented and followed. Despite the people and chaos around them, the younger man set a brisk pace. At first Steve muttered an apology to everyone he bumped into, but it didn't take long for him to realize they weren't listening and began to simply push his way through. More and more people were streaming into the streets, fleeing from the dark smoke and the fear of more strikes.

They ducked into an alley. Away from the congestion of the crowds, the other man broke into a jog. Steve was helpless to follow – to fall behind now would mean having to navigate the maze of the narrow, trash-strewn passageways alone. Even though he'd lived in the city for most of his life, his natural sense of direction still went to hell whenever he ventured into the urban jungle.

"We're almost there," the kid called over his shoulder. "You'll have time to get acclimated to the setup, but not much."

 _The kid doesn't even sound winded…behold the perks of youth…_ Noticing a shift in the light, Steve stole a glance upwards. The black smoke from the blast was rapidly spreading across the building constricted view of the sky. _No…it's not spreading…we're just getting closer…_ He wasn't sure how he felt about going near the impact zone, but turning back now wasn't an option.

They went the equivalent of another few blocks before their progress was slowed by large chunks of concrete and brick lying in the passageway. They dodged the smaller pieces and climbed over the larger ones. Steve couldn't figure out where they could have come from until he felt something bounce off the top of his head. Looking up, he realized they weren't just _near_ the impact zone – they were in it. The hunks of rock they were vaulting over had fallen from the building that the missile had struck. Bits of masonry rained down on them from above, and he knew it was only a matter of time before another large piece followed.

They had just clambered over a compact car sized chunk of wall when the van came into view. It was a large, cargo type with heavily tinted windows, jet-black paint, and a push bar mounted across the grill. The red silhouette of an eagle in flight adorned the side, its golden eyes glowing eerily in the low light. The vehicle looked more tactical than practical, and left Steve wondering what was hidden behind its closed doors.

"This way, sir," the younger man said, leading him around to the rear of the van.

Steve hung back as he watched him reach for the doors, ready to bolt at the first sign if trouble. He was breathing hard from their impromptu jog, but he had no doubt his second wind would instantaneously return if the need arose. The guy in the uniform seemed genuine and certainly didn't look dangerous, however years of experience had taught the dotctor the value of being a skeptic.

A dazzling light poured from the back of the van as the two rear doors were pulled open. For a moment, Steve couldn't believe what he was seeing, and he actually rubbed his eyes to be sure they weren't playing tricks on him. He wasn't sure what he'd expected to see, but it certainly wasn't the sterile white interior of an ambulance that greeted him. "What the…?"

"Come. Quickly," the young man beckoned. "We haven't much time."

Confused more than ever, Steve did as he was told and climbed up into the back of the van. The place was immaculate. The gurney locked into the floor was empty, its white sheets so pristine it was as if they had never seen blood. Chrome bordered cabinets and drawers lined the walls and the partition that kept the driver's compartment separate from the back. A monitoring unit, drug locker, and oxygen equipment were secured to the walls, and three swivel chairs – one on each side and at the head of the gurney – were bolted to the floor. The layout rivaled any state-of-that-art rig he'd ever been inside; and this one was stuffed into the back of cargo van.

"Please, look around, familiarize yourself with where items are," the other man said as he climbed in behind him. "I can direct you if you have questions, but it'll be faster if you know where things are yourself."

 _Oh I have questions…_ An odd sense of déjà vu settled over Steve as he began to pull open the drawers and cabinets. "You said you'd tell me what was going on once we got here. We're here, so…start talking."

The kid looked at his watch. "We don't have much time – I don't know where to begin…"

"Who are you?" Steve asked, opening the drug box and studying its contents. "What do you do?"

"My name is Mort Kent. I've been a paramedic with the city for two years."

"Is this rig yours?"

"No," he replied, sinking into one of the seats. "I'd never seen it before today."

Steve had moved on to inspect the monitoring unit. "How do you know who I am?"

"I don't, really, beyond your name and occupation, that is."

"How did you find me?"

"I got a text message about fifteen minutes ago. It had your picture, your approximate location, and that you'd be in cab number 483," Mort replied.

"Did you know the missile was coming?"

"No. I was half way to your position when the missile struck. I was afraid the van might have been hit by falling debris, but it looks like we've been lucky so far."

The doctor had perused the supply drawers and moved to check the oxygen equipment. "Who's this target you keep talking about?"

"I don't know."

"Why are you here?" he asked, realizing he knew exactly what the answer was going to be even before Mort had opened his mouth.

"It's complicated…"

 _Here we go…_

"I started getting texts a month ago about impending crimes – I thought they were a joke, so I ignored them," Mort explained, speaking rapidly. "Then I started seeing the aftermath of these crimes in the news and was even dispatched to several of the locations to recover victims. One day I got a message and decided to follow up on it. The message told me where to go and when to be there, so I went. At first I thought I'd been played for a fool, but then this couple showed up. They were drunk and arguing– the woman was accusing the man of hiding money from her. It got pretty heated and the next thing I knew, she had pulled a knife from her purse and stabbed him in the neck with it. He was cut deep, but I was able to get the bleeding under control. He survived and his girlfriend is sitting at Riker's awaiting trial.

"A few days later, I got another message and the picture of a man and young child. The location was a bus stop. The child and his mother were there, waiting for the one o'clock bus to take them uptown. The mother was on her phone and never saw the guy until after he'd grabbed the kid and started running. I was able to catch up to him and several bystanders helped me subdue him until the cops arrived. It turns out he was the boy's father and the courts had just revoked his visitation privileges under the suspicion of abuse."

"So you stopped a kidnapping because of a text message?"

"Yeah, crazy, huh? I don't know who's sending them or how they know this stuff is going to happen, but it's real. And why'd they pick me?"

"Who else is in on this?" Steve had found a box of large gloves and was in the process of pulling a pair on.

"Besides the driver – an EMT from the Bronx named Nate Peterson – and you, no one."

"Whoa, whoa – I'm not in on this."

Mort looked confused. "You haven't been getting text messages?"

"No. I was in town for a trauma convention."

"Trauma convention? But that was last weekend."

" _Last_ weekend?"

"Yeah, I went with my supervisor."

Steve wasn't sure how to react to this piece of information. _All the info we had on this thing said it was_ this _weekend. The booking agent, the convention director, the website… all said THIS WEEKEND… how could it have possibly been LAST WEEKEND…?_

"See? You _are_ in on this. Not in the same way Peterson and I are, but you're still a part of it."

"This is crazy…" Steve muttered. "The convention _is_ this weekend. It has to be. I wouldn't have come…" A sharp knocking on the door interrupted his desperate attempt at reasoning.

"The target's here." Mort stood and pushed open the back doors.

There were two men wearing tactical gear waiting on the other side. The larger of the two had another man slung across his shoulders and an expression of grim apprehension on his face.

"Is he…alive?" Mort asked tentatively.

"He is, but I'm not sure how much he's got left in him," the one holding the target replied. "His injuries are severe."

"Get him inside. Let's see what we've got," Steve said, stepping back to make room for him. He couldn't see the target's face as the two officers climbed into the back, but the sight of his hole riddled, blood soaked clothing gave him most of what he needed to know. This man hadn't been caught in the explosion like he'd anticipated; he'd been caught in the crosshairs of someone's gun.

"Easy, go slow," the officer prompted as they lowered the unconscious man onto the gurney.

Steve felt like he'd been punched in the gut the moment he got a glimpse of the target's face. _No way…uh uh…this can't be happening…there's not way in_ Hell _this is happening…_ But it was. There was no denying that the bloody man in front of him was John. _How…? Why…? How…?_

"Dr Maxwell?"

Steve's head snapped up when he heard his name.

"Are you okay, sir?" Mort asked, slipping an oxygen mask over John's face. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

 _A ghost? No, but it would be more believable than what's really going on…_ He ignored the question and turned to the cabinet behind him. A man was dying. He needed his focus to be here and now; pondering the fragile state of his sanity would have to wait. "What are we looking at?" he asked, pulling various items from storage.

"An unresponsive middle aged male with numerous gunshot wounds from multiple aggressors using high powered rifles," the officer began. "Most of the damage seems to be concentrated along his right side with several errant hits on the left. I applied tourniquets to his right arm and leg, and plugged as many holes as I could with Combat Gauze."

"That's infused with a coagulant, right?" Steve asked, tossing a pair of scissors to Mort and indicating for him to start cutting away John's clothes.

"Yes, sir. I suspect some of his chest wounds could have used occlusive dressings, but with the missile coming, we were short on time." Without being asked, the officer had taken a knife from his belt and was helping Mort cut away John's ruined suit. "The only other thing I can tell you is that his name is…"

"John." Steve was back to rifling through the supply drawers, but could practically feel the dumbfounded looks coming from the three men.

"Y-you know him?" Mort stammered.

"Yes."

"How…?"

"It's complicated," the doctor said, and quickly moved on before any more time could be wasted on questions he couldn't answer. "Get the monitors on him – call out the stats as soon as you get them." He glanced at the officer who was working on removing John's shoes. "What's your name?"

"Gus."

"Are you field trained, Gus?"

"I was a combat medic for eight years."

"Even better. Can you stay? I'm going to need as many experienced hands as I can get."

Gus unhooked his rifle and held it out to his partner. "Bret, tell the LT I'm taking a ride. I'll call you with a pick up location as soon as I can."

Bret took the rifle and nodded toward John. "Good luck," he said and hopped out of the back of the van.

"Let the driver know we're good to go," Mort called after him.

Bret flashed a thumb's up and shut the doors.

Steve was bent over his patient with a stethoscope, his face a mask of concentration and concern. _Definite pneumothorax on the right and the sounds coming from the left aren't much better…_ As he listened to the worrying sounds coming from the man's chest, he did a quick visual inspection of the damage he could see. John was literally full of holes. The tourniquets and dressings had done their job and stopped the bleeding where they'd been applied, but the untreated wounds were still seeping blood – the one thing John couldn't afford to lose anymore of. _And God only knows the true extent of his internal damage…_

"Gus, the cabinet behind you has bandaging supplies. Can you get the rest of these holes plugged up?"

"Yes, sir." The former medic was used to taking charge in situations like this, but willingly stepped back and allowed the doctor to call the shots.

"Good." Steve moved to the back of the rig and gathered the items he had set aside earlier. "Mort, where are my stats?" He didn't mean to sound terse, but he was used to working with a well-oiled team that was able to maintain the fast pace that was so critical in trauma. Gus seemed to understand the urgency of the matter, but even with two years in, Mort still had much to learn.

"Coming, sir," the young man uttered, placing the last cardiac electrode and turning to display screen. "Pulse 130; BP 74/50; Respiration 40; SpO2 62 percent."

 _Hypovolemic shock…this is just like last time…_ the doctor thought as he pushed the oxygen mask from John's face and lifted his chin. _No…he's worse than last time…he's further gone…_ There was blood in his mouth when he opened it, and he used the onboard suction unit to clear it. _A bullet must have perforated his lung…another strike against him…not looking good…_

Steve took the guide tool from the intubation kit and slid the blunt blade down John's throat. "Find me a usable vein, preferably two," he said to Mort without looking up. "I want to get IV access ASAP."

He used the curve of the blade to place a plastic tube into the unconscious man's windpipe before withdrawing it and attaching an Ambu-Bag to the tube's regulator. Putting on his stethoscope, he listened to John's chest as he gave the bag a couple of compressions. Satisfied with the tube's placement, he anchored it with tape. "You got a vein yet?"

"No, sir. His vascular system has collapsed."

Steve cursed. He recalled initially having to stick John in the neck after the crossbow incident and it looked like he was going to have to do it again. "Take over bagging. I'll put in a central line."

As he gathered the materials he needed, he heard the van's engines rumble to life. "I didn't see a light bar on this thing. Your buddy going to be able to make it through the gridlock that's between us and Bellevue?"

"We're not going to Bellevue," Mort replied.

"Why not?" Steve had to grab one of the overhead rails to keep from falling as the van leapt forward.

"Our orders are to meet up with a Life Flight chopper fifteen blocks from here. You and the target will be transported to Egret's Haven, a private facility about a forty minute flight north of the city."

The doctor shook his head as he settled himself beside John to put in the line. _Another similarity to last time…Harold refused to take him to a hospital…we wound up at a safe house out in the sticks…it was adequately stocked, but it far from ideal…_ "He's not going to make it that far. He needs blood."

"There's some waiting at the chopper to start en route."

Steve had wiped John's neck with Betadine and was about to insert the large gauge needle when van abruptly slowed, lurched, and then rapidly accelerated. "What the hell was that?"

"Probably debris from the missile strike," Mort answered. "Or a dumpster."

 _A dumpster?_ Steve was about to inquire further, but recalled the push bar mounted on the front of the van. Apparently they were bypassing the gridlock of abandoned cars by traveling the alleyways and side streets. _Urban off-roading…that's different…_

With deft hands, he slid the IV catheter into place and connected it to the drip line suspended overhead. Releasing the lock, he adjusted the flow rate to the maximum output, wanting to get several liters of fluid into the man as soon as possible. He looked to Gus. "You about there?"

"Last one," he replied, pushing a folded piece of gauze into a hole on John's left leg and tightly binding it with a bandage. "You want to try rolling him to check his back?"

"Yeah – wouldn't hurt." Leaving Mort at John's head to assist his labored breathing, the two men slowly shifted him onto his left side. "Any exit wounds?"

"Several. You got him?"

"Yeah – be quick." Keeping a close eye on the vitals display, Steve kept John positioned on his side while Gus packed the wounds on his back. They couldn't do much for his internal injuries, but controlling the external bleeding was just as critical.

 _Why are you even trying to save him?_ A voice in the back of his mind asked. _You know he doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of surviving this…sure, you thought things looked pretty bleak the first time, but this sort of makes the crossbow wound look like a paper cut…the man is full of holes inside and out…you're just prolonging his suffering…even if he does come through the shock, he'll likely be left with irreversible organ damage…his life will never be the same… you have the authority to make the call…so do it…_

The warning shriek of the cardiac monitor interrupted his thoughts. "Hey, Gus…"

"I'm finished," he said, and helped return John to his back.

When the arrhythmia didn't correct itself with the change in position, Steve decided it was time to give John's heart a boost. "Gus, in the drawer behind Mort, you'll find some dopamine/dextrose infusions. Grab one and get it going – you can piggyback off the main drip line."

"Dr. Maxwell," Mort began. "I've got blood in the ET tube."

Steve went to John's head and immediately saw what had young man concerned. He reached for the suction hose and used it to clear the darkened blood from the tube in the man's throat. Blood from the lungs was reason for concern, but the darker color suggested it wasn't from an active bleed. "Keep the compressions slow and regular. Let me know if it happens again."

He looked over at the numbers displayed on the monitor. As the drugs he'd had Gus start permeated John's system, the irregularities in his heart rhythm eased and it resumed the frantic pace that was characteristic of hemorrhagic shock.

A muffled thud from outside the van followed by several seconds of abrupt rocking and bouncing nearly toppled the three men standing in the back. "A fence maybe?" Mort offered when both Steve and Gus pegged him with a questioning glare. "It's not like he's doing it on purpose – we're not exactly on the freeway, you know."

"We're also transporting a critical patient that can't tolerate the Class 5 rapids we seem to keep encountering," Steve shot back. He sighed and forced himself to control his frustration. As a teacher, he was used to working with different people, but he vetted them out in the classroom before taking them even near the ER. To be thrown into a situation as perilous as this with people he didn't know only served to shorten his fuse. He didn't think Mort meant to be flippant, but the younger man didn't realize how close to getting a lecture of a lifetime he had come. There was a time and place to be glib, but never in the presence of a dying man.

 _Let it go…he's not yours to teach…_ He turned to Gus. "Can you do chest tubes?"

"In my sleep," the man replied. "He need one?"

"Yeah. As much as I hate to cut into him, his right lung has collapsed and I'm pretty sure it's perforated," Steve said as he hastily flipped through the drawers for supplies. "I'm going to need a second pair of hands."

"Just tell me what you need."

Steve liked this man – he was fast, professional, and – from what he'd seen in the last few minutes – knew his stuff well. "I'll do the cutting, but I'll need you to keep his arm up and pass me things as I ask for them – you okay with that?"

"Yes, sir." Gus moved to the front of the gurney and took John's right arm, being careful to avoid the bullet wounds. Even through the gloves, he could feel the unnatural chill of his skin, a consequence of the tourniquet fastened high on his bicep.

"Keeping doing what you're doing," Steve instructed Mort as he placed a tray of the items he would need within Gus's reach. "Let me know if you see more blood or the bag compressions get easier or harder. Understand?"

"I do."

"Good." Steve surveyed the bandages bound around John's torso as he sidled in beside Gus. It was a relief to see that very little red had seeped through the olive green material. "I'll have to remove some of the pressure bandages, but it looks like the Combat Gauze has done its job. Go ahead and bring his arm up. The sooner we can release the pressure that's building up, the better off he'll be."

Gus brought John's arm up and stretched it over his head to expose and tighten the area on his chest where the doctor would be working. He glanced up at Mort. The younger man had averted his eyes and paled slightly in the face. _If he goes lily livered this easily, he's going to have a very long career…_

He looked back to John. The man's skin was nearly gray and shone under a fine veil of sweat. He was deep in shock, his body slowly shutting itself down in an effort to preserve life as long as possible. Ironically, casualties who survived their initial trauma were still at risk for death if the organ damage incurred was too great. _Even the declaration of 'preserve life at all costs' has its exceptions…_

He watched as Steve felt down to the space between John's fourth and fifth ribs and carefully began to carefully trim away a portion of the pressure bandage with blunt tipped scissors. Two of the bullet wounds were exposed in the process; both tightly clotted around the wad of Combat Gauze he had packed inside.

"Scalpel."

"Do you think he has any chance of surviving this?" Gus asked quietly as he handed over the requested instrument.

' _You're just prolonging his suffering… you have the authority to make the call…so do it…'_ Steve recalled the thoughts he'd had earlier while making the initial assessment of John. It was uncharacteristic for him to think that way, and it was likely the severity of the man's injuries that made him question whether or not the attempt to save him was realistic. _Or humane…_

With his hand poised just above where he wanted to make the cut for the chest tube, Steve glanced up at Gus and briefly caught the other man's eye. _Tell him the truth…_ he thought. _Mort may still be wet behind the ears, but Gus…he probably knows the look of a dying man better than any of us…_

"A few years ago, I watched him survive a terrible injury and then overcome a massive infection. By any definition, John's a fighter. But to answer your question…no, I don't think he's going to come through this," Steve replied as he lowered the scalpel and drew the blade through John's skin. "But that's sure as hell not going to stop me from trying."


	3. Chapter 3

Steve glanced up at the numbers on the screen beside him for the fifth time in less than two minutes. John's stats weren't promising, but they were notably better than they had been prior to his thoracostomy. He'd siphoned a decent amount of blood and air from within the man's chest, allowing his collapsed lung to inflate properly. He still suspected the lung itself had been damaged, but at least now it was able to function to some degree.

He dropped his eyes back to his work. The tourniquets Gus had placed around John's right arm and leg had stopped the bleeding, but left the wounds exposed to contaminants. He'd already shot him up with a mega dose of antibiotics as a precaution. With so many holes, infection was inevitable, and John's weakened system was going to need all the help it could get. _If he even makes it that far…_

He finished wrapping the man's leg with a protective bandage and moved on to do the same to his arm. He'd been able to feel some of the bullets as he went along, the hard lumps of metal buried deep within the muscles and bone. The damage was severe, but he found himself thinking it could have been worse. _Not 'could have been worse'…it '_ should _have been worse'…_ he thought, recalling what Gus said earlier about the gunmen. _He said they'd had assault rifles…but these look more like small caliber wounds to me…_

Steve would be the first to admit that he didn't know much about firearms, but he'd dealt with the aftermath of enough shootouts to be able to recognize the damage pattern caused by different types of ammunition. John did have several wounds that were typical of the larger ammo commonly used in assault rifles, but the majority of them were more consistent with a smaller caliber slug. _This is really strange…_

With the bandage secured around John's wrist, Steve drew the blanket up over him and slid back against the chair he'd been perched on with a sigh. Due to the arrangement of the storage cabinets, there were no windows in the back of the van. He hated not being able to see out, preferring to be aware of where they were in relation to their destination. Not that he knew where their current destination was. There weren't many places within city limits where a Life Flight chopper could safely land, and for all he knew, they were still cruising around the back alleys looking for a way out onto the main road.

Steve started to look at the monitor yet again, but caught himself and looked to Mort instead. He was at the head of the gurney; the young medic a picture of textbook precision as he used the Ambu-Bag to help keep John ventilated. He was solemn faced, and hadn't said much since the doctor had snapped at him earlier. "You're doing a good job, Mort," Steve said, catching the flicker of appreciation that flashed across the kid's face. "Your hands getting tired?"

"No, sir. I'm fine," he replied.

"Okay – let me know if they do." The doctor noted no change in John's stats as his eyes drifted over the monitor's display. He glanced at his watch next, cringing when he saw they'd been in transit for just over eight minutes. Rapid transport was critical in traumatic injury, and was often a key factor in whether a casualty survived or not. _We should have gone to Bellevue…we weren't that far away…we're wasting time – precious time – hauling him to this Egret's Haven facility…even if it turns out to be a state of the art trauma center, he's likely going to be too far gone by the time we get there…assuming he hasn't reached the 'point of no return' already…_

Steve's gaze shifted to Gus. He was seated opposite him and holding John's hand through the gurney's side rail. He knew the sight – two men holding hands – would bother some people, but he'd seen this gesture of strength and comradery many times in the ER. Gus knew nothing of John beyond the fact he'd been a soldier, and it was enough of a connection to earn his respect and concern.

Gus looked up when he sensed he was being watched. "You said you worked with him before?"

"I worked on him, actually. His employer brought him to me a few years ago after he'd been wounded while on assignment," Steve replied, leaving out the complicated details of Harold's arrival at the bar.

Gus raised an eyebrow. "Assignment?"

"All I know is John was tasked with protecting a young woman from the hit men her siblings hired to kill her. He was gut shot with a cross bow while out on a horseback tour of the woman's property and ended up having to walk about ten miles out. He'd lost so much blood I didn't think he was going to make it, but he proved me wrong. About two weeks later, he developed an abscess that went septic – we almost lost him again, but…" Steve gestured to the unconscious man on the gurney. "He came out of it. I don't think he's going to be able to do it this time, though."

"He was prepared to die," Gus said quietly. "He had no backup or body armor, and was armed with a handgun. Whatever he went up on that rooftop to do, he knew he wasn't coming back."

"I may have only known him for a short time, but from what I saw and after talking with his friends, I can say that he's a good man; an honorable man. He does what needs to be done and fights the good fight no matter how bad things get along the way." Steve saw the other man had something shiny in the hand not wrapped around John's. "What's that?"

"A spent casing," Gus said, holding it out for the doctor to take. "There were so many of them on the ground, I grabbed a few to see what they were. Between the volume and caliber, I still don't understand how John wasn't shredded."

Steve turned the brass casing over slowly in his fingers. _It sure looks like a round from an assault rifle…_ He looked at the lettering stamped on the bottom of it. " '2Sams Armory.' Familiar with them?"

"Nope," Gus replied, accepting the casing back. "They're probably a private company somewhere off shore. The custom stuff you can order from those guys is scary and more often than not, illegal."

They felt the van began to slow. The brakes squealed quietly as the large vehicle came to a stop, followed by the high-pitched tone of a backup alarm.

"We're here," Mort said.

"Finally…" Steve uttered as he got to his feet and began to get John ready to be moved. He had just finished adding a second blanket when Gus held out a closed hand. "What?"

Gus nodded toward his hand and when Steve reached up, he deposited a small medallion on a gold chain into his palm.

Steve looked at it and raised an eyebrow. "A St Michael's medal – are you sure?"

"It's protected me for the last twenty-seven years. I know John is likely beyond help of any kind, but maybe it can make what remains of his journey a little smoother."

Touched by the gesture, the doctor nodded and slipped the necklace into his pocket.

The van had barely come to a full stop when the back doors were pulled open. A man in a blue flight suit and a tangled mop of blonde hair greeted them. "Is this the casualty we're transporting to Egret's Haven?"

"It is," Steve replied, having to shout over the roar of the heli's rotors. He could see the waiting chopper idling at the center of the empty parking lot about a hundred yards away. Like the van, it was painted jet black with the red silhouette of an eagle on its side. "He's in the advanced stages of hypovolemic shock from numerous gunshot wounds. We need to get him there as quickly as possible."

"Agreed. Let's load him up."

Steve made the final preparations to move John while Gus and the flight medic released the locks on the gurney. The last thing he did as they exited the van was to grab the bag of IV fluids that was suspended overhead. As they moved across the tarmac at a brisk pace, the flight medic introduced himself as Pat Knight, a paramedic employed by a private company upstate. It wasn't the appropriate time to ask how he'd come to be at this particular parking lot with a Life Flight helicopter at their precise moment of need, but Steve was certain he'd hear a story similar to Mort's if he did.

The group was about twenty yards out from the helicopter when the sharp screech of the cardiac monitor pierced through the air.

"He's in v-fib!" Gus shouted, able to see the readouts on the screen from his side of the gurney.

"Get him onboard!" Pat called, prompting the small group to break into a trot. They reached the chopper's gurney that had been set up just outside the range of the blades and transferred John using the sheet beneath him. As Gus and Pat worked to secure him, Steve took over the Ambu-Bag from Mort.

"I've got him!" he shouted over the thunderous noise of the heli. "Thanks for the help!"

"You're welcome!" The young medic nodded toward John. "Good luck!"

Familiar with the process from his active duty days, Gus helped maneuver the gurney into the narrow compartment of the chopper. "I'd come if I could!" he shouted as Steve climbed in past him.

"I know!" The doctor replied, clapping him on the arm as he pulled himself up into the chopper. "Thank you!"

Gus flashed a thumb's up and closed the heli's door.

Steve knocked his head against the low ceiling of the interior twice before self-preservation kicked in and prompted him to stoop. He slid into the narrow seat at John's side and looked at the monitor as he pushed back the blankets. Finding the rapid, uneven pattern of v-fib, he interlocked his fingers over the man's breastbone and started chest compressions. His concentration on counting, he barely registered the helicopter lifting off or Pat moving around him.

The medic lifted a pair of headphones off the wall and settled them over Steve's ears when he'd stopped compressions to give John several breaths with the Ambu-Bag. "Can you hear me, Doctor?"

Steve nodded, the other man's voice coming clearly through the headset. "You got an AED onboard?" he asked, resuming compressions.

"A manual defibrillator – it's charging as we speak." Working so as not to interfere with the CPR, he began to cut away the portion of the pressure bandage around John's chest where the paddles would contact.

Steve was just starting the fifth round of CPR when the defibrillator indicated it was ready to shock. By the time he finished the thirty compression, two-breath cycle, Pat had notified the pilot – a man he called Plucky – of his intentions and coated the paddles with conductive gel. Breathing hard from exertion, the doctor sat back away from the gurney and indicated for the medic to proceed.

Pat placed the paddles against John's chest where he'd cut away the bandages and delivered the shock. The unconscious man went rigid and his back arched as 200 joules coursed through his body.

The moment John relaxed, Steve resumed CPR. "Push one unit of epi."

Pat set the defibrillator up to recharge and turned to the drug box for the ordered dose of adrenaline.

After five more thirty-to-two cycles, the doctor paused and looked at the monitor for a rhythm check. "He's still in v-fib."

"Hit him again?" Pat asked, already reaching for the paddles.

Steve nodded and sat back from the gurney. Pat gave the shock, and he resumed CPR once more. "Charge to 360," he said as the medic reset the defibrillator.

"Repeat the epi?"

"Do you have vasopressin?"

"Yeah."

"Go with forty units of that instead." Unable to stop compressions, Steve wiped the sweat that was rolling down his face against his shoulder. If done correctly, CPR was exhausting for the provider, and frequent task rotation was ideal to prevent fatigue. Due to the confines of the chopper, however, changing positions wasn't an option.

When another five cycles of CPR were completed, they paused for another rhythm check.

"V-fib," Pat announced. "Again?"

"Again," Steve puffed, sitting back to avoid contact with the gurney. He rested during the brief moment it took for the medic to deliver the more powerful shock, his arms, shoulders, and back burning from overuse. "Repeat the epi and follow with one and a half units lidocaine."

As the flight medic went for the medications, Steve kept going with the CPR. Near the end of the first cycle, he felt one of John's ribs give more than it should under the stress of compressions.

 _So how long are you planning on keeping this up?_ His inner voice asked. _You know he's a dead man. His blood pressure is virtually nonexistent and he has more holes in him than a wheel of Swiss cheese. You can flood his system with stimulants and shock him until the batteries in the defibrillator are dead, but he's not coming back…give the man a dignified exit from the world…it's time to let him go…_

 _No…_ Steve thought, refusing to give into the thread of uncertainty that had been plaguing him since Mort had knocked on the window of his cab. _If he flat lines – yes – but until that point, if John wants to fight, then I've got his back…_

He finished the fifth round of CPR and paused to check the monitor. "Pat," he panted. "Tell me I'm not seeing things."

"You're not – we've got a sinus rhythm."

Steve hung his head for a moment in utter disbelief and relief. "Thank God…" He reached around his neck for the stethoscope he had inadvertently taken from the van. "I was told you had blood on board?"

"I have two units of fresh whole O negative ready to go," the medic replied.

"Lock off the saline and use the line to get the blood going. Start the run slow – he's a reactive patient. I'll put in a second line in a minute." Steve shifted the headphones and settled the stethoscope in his ears. It was difficult to hear the sounds coming from John's chest over the noise of the chopper, but he could make out enough to be displeased, especially when he compressed the Ambu-Bag.

"No good?" Pat asked when the doctor had replaced his headphones.

"The congestion on the left side of his chest is getting worse. We need to watch his sats level – if it starts to drop, we'll have to place another chest tube." Steve took his first good look around the interior of the chopper. Although greatly compacted, it was similar to the set up of the van, with cabinets and various pieces of medical equipment mounted on the walls. "Where are your IV supplies?"

Pat nodded toward the cabinet above the doctor's head as he hung the first unit of blood from a hook on the ceiling. Disconnecting the bag of saline, he joined the line to the blood and set the drip rate to slow as he'd been instructed. "Blood's going," he said, taking over at the Ambu-Bag.

"Great," Steve replied, up to his shoulders in the cabinet as he searched for the items he needed. "How's his rhythm looking?"

"Still tachycardic and with frequent arrhythmias. His BP has dropped a few pegs too."

"Try another unit of lidocaine and prepare a dopamine/dextrose infusion – he had one earlier and it seemed to help. Maybe we can catch him before he gets into trouble again." The doctor took the supplies he'd gathered and returned to John. He didn't even bother checking the man's arm for a useable vein, going straight for the one beneath his collarbone instead. His hands shaking from fatigue, inserting the central line took just as much concentration as it did skill.

With the catheter in place, he reconnected the saline drip and joined it to the dopamine/dextrose infusion that Pat had set up. Between the fresh blood and fluids now circulating John's system, Steve hoped to see an improvement in the man's erratic vital signs. _Assuming it doesn't leak out just as fast as you put it in…_

Steve dropped onto the seat behind him with a grunt. His adrenaline rush was starting to fade, and he found himself to be very near the edge of exhaustion. For the moment, they had done all they could for John. Now it was a matter of watching, waiting, and being ready to jump in and help if he began to struggle. "How far out are we?"

"Thirty-five minutes," Plucky replied through the headset. "Maybe twenty-five if I push it."

"Push it," Steve said without hesitation. "Give it as much power as you possibly can."

"Copy that."

As the chopper abruptly began to pick up speed, the angle it flew at became steeper toward the front. Steve felt himself start to slide from his seat and had to latch onto the side of the gurney to keep from falling out.

The medic chuckled as he fastened his seatbelt. "You did ask for more power. That's like telling Plucky to floor it."

"A warning would have been nice…" Steve muttered, securing his own seatbelt. Safely anchored to his chair, he reached for the Ambu-Bag only to have Pat intercept his hand.

"Let me handle this – you need a break."

"But…"

"Look, I know from experience how exhausting performing CPR is _with_ rotation and you just did nearly ten minutes of compressions by yourself. You're soaked with sweat, still out of breath, and if you think I didn't see your hands shaking while you were putting in that line, think again."

"My hands weren't shaking," Steve insisted. "It was the vibration from the chop..."

Pat responded to this by holding up the hand that wasn't on the Ambu-Bag. The glove was streaked in places with dried blood, but it was as steady as a rock.

Steve's shoulders slumped in defeat. Snowballing med students was easy compared to seasoned flight medics.

"You're protective of your patients – that's great – but even that won't keep you from making a bad call if your overstressed and not thinking straight," Pat said, continuing when the frown on Steve's face deepened. "All I'm saying is that it looks to me like you could use a break and we're at a point where you can safely take one. If something drastically changes or you see me doing something you don't agree with, you're welcome to chime in. Otherwise, sit back, take a few deep breaths, and enjoy the ride."

 _I'd rather go back and pick up my stomach after it got left behind when your buddy hit the throttle…_ Steve thought, rubbing the drying sweat from his forehead with the underside of his wrist. He knew the medic was right; he was feeling the aftereffects of performing CPR solo and the stress that had been mounting ever since the missile had shot across the sky. _And I'm not being 'protective' of my patient. Knowing the person you're working just ups the ante, it makes things personal and emotional and…and it just_ complicates _things…_

Allowing his head to drop back against the wall, he closed his eyes for a moment and sighed deeply. The vibration from the chopper was coming through the seat and acting almost like a massage for his burning muscles. "Know anything about this Egret's Haven we're going to?" he asked.

"Just that it's in a remote part of the state," Pat replied, glad to see the other man taking his advice. "I'd never heard of them before this morning. They could be a privately owned medical facility or a barely funded clinic. Frankly, I don't think it's going to make much of difference by the time we get there."

Steve picked his head up and looked at John. If it weren't for the frantic toll of the cardiac monitor, it would have been easy to mistake him for dead. They had gotten the surface bleeding under control, but it was the internal injuries they couldn't reach that had him worried. Pumping him full of blood, fluids, and medication would amount to nothing if it just leaked out again.

He reached into his pocket and took out the St Michael's medal that Gus had given him. It appeared to be old and well worn – like someone had spent a far amount of time passing it between their fingers for comfort. He'd never been much of a believer in talismans – he was aware that people had them; he just hadn't felt the need to employ one of his own.

'I know John is likely beyond help of any kind, but maybe it can make what remains of his journey a little smoother…'

Recalling Gus's words, Steve sat forward and placed the small medallion in John's left hand. _For what it's worth…_ he thought, getting an approving nod from Pat. _Whatever path you're called to follow, may He serve as your guide and be a constant reminder that you do not make this journey alone…_


	4. Chapter 4

Greetings ~ Sorry for the delay. Life just won't slow down even though I keep trying to toss out the anchor. I'm getting the chapters written as fast as I can – I hope everyone can bear with me. I've had several people ask if I'm in the medical business – nope, retail actually. I have to research everything I write, which is another reason I'm slow to post. I know there are things left out or done in the wrong order, but the errors are all mine :) On with the story…

* * *

"…Copy that, Dr. Maxwell. Trauma team is on standby and waiting for your arrival. Pilot, please confirm ETA…"

"Why, I'll be touching down at your place in just under three minutes, darling."

Despite the circumstances, Steve couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes at Plucky's crooning drawl coming through the headset. "Does he…?" he began to ask when he saw Pat grinning.

"Every time," the medic replied, shaking his head. "Most dispatchers just ignore him, but he's gotten some pretty unique responses before – especially from the men."

Steve's eyebrows rose. "I bet." Trying unsuccessfully not to fidget, he released his seatbelt and stood to make sure the line running the blood was flowing unimpeded.

"You'll want that on," Pat warned. "He's going to set this thing down fast and if you're not strapped in, you'll likely be roommates with John in the ER."

Finding nothing wrong with either of the IV lines, Steve dropped back into his chair and refastened his seatbelt. Unable to keep still, he reached for John's left wrist. There was no pulse present beneath his fingers, but he wasn't surprised. The man didn't have enough blood circulating in his system to generate a radial or distal pulse. Despite all they'd done, the best they could do was keep his vital signs hovering just above the danger zone.

The doctor sighed and began to redistribute the blankets. He normally wasn't the fidgety type, but he was anxious to get on the ground. He knew every second they spent in the air, John's chance of survival was shrinking.

"So…" Pat began, sensing the other man's unrest. "I guess we can rule out Egret's Haven as a neighborhood clinic."

"Yeah, they usually don't come staffed with a trauma team."

"What did you think of Gowan?"

Before the dispatcher took over the line, Steve had spoken with Percy Gowan, the physician in charge of the facility's emergency department. He'd relayed the details about John's injuries, his current stats, and the care he'd undergone en route. Used to being on the receiving end of such information, he found it awkward to be on the giving end for a change.

"He seemed knowledgeable – he asked the right questions anyway."

"Up to your standards?"

"I'm going into another man's ER. My standards don't matter. Besides, he may not even want my help. Having a new person on the unit – even a qualified one – can have lethal consequences in a situation like this."

The pitch of the chopper's engine changed as the pilot began preparations to land. The steep angle created by the high speed of travel gradually decreased and finally leveled off. Steve closed his hands around the rails of the gurney. If his memory served him correctly, the heli's landing was going to be more noticeable than the take off.

The chopper slowed further and settled into a hover. "Good to set 'er down, boss?" Plucky asked.

As soon as Pat gave the go ahead, the chopper began to drop. It wasn't a gradual decent like an airplane, but a series of short, straight down plunges. Steve felt his stomach lurch with each drop and was quickly reminded why he didn't like this particular method of air travel.

With a final, almost delicate bump, the chopper came to rest on the ground. Both men immediately got to their feet and began getting John ready to be moved. They were nearly done when the door was pulled open and they were greeted by two scrub-clad men.

"Welcome to Egret's Haven, Dr Maxwell!" one of them shouted over the clamor of the heli. "Dr. Gowan and his team are waiting for you inside!"

"That's great! Let's not keep them waiting!" Steve replied, indicating for the men to help them with the gurney. "Go nice and easy, fellas! If you handle this one too rough he's liable to spring a leak!"

Working together, the four of them were able to unlock and lower the gurney to the landing pad with little disruption to John. With Pat manning the Ambu-Bag, Steve grabbed the bags of blood and fluids from their hook and kept them elevated as they walked across the tarmac.

With frequent glances at the vitals monitor, the doctor got his first look at Egret's Haven. For a place that sounded more like a bird sanctuary than a medical facility, the sprawling red brick campus wasn't what he expected to see. Standing several stories high, the place had the appearance of regality with its tall, arching windows and scrollwork along the eaves. Its weathered patina gave it a rustic feel and made it look right at home in the middle of its meticulously maintained wooded lot. Even the tarmac was pristine with a fresh seal coat, sharp white lines, and no bumps or cracks to catch wheels and jostle patients. _And this is just the back side of it…_

The familiar sights, sounds, and smells of a hospital emergency room greeted the small group as they passed through a set of automatic doors. With its primarily white color scheme, maze of hallways, racks of supplies, and colored guidance lines on the walls, it looked like any other ER Steve had ever been in. The only major difference he saw was the lack of frantic activity that often dominated the ward. _Even on a slow day, there's more activity than this… where are all the people?_

A nurses' station came into view. "Dr. G said to take him right down to Trauma One," the lone attendant at the desk called out as they walked by.

Following the two men that had met them at the chopper, Steve and Pat helped guide the gurney into a right turn, past a bank of color coded elevators, and through a set of double doors. The room they entered reminded Steve of the primary trauma theatre back home. A table with full 360-degree access and an array of adjustable overhead lights was positioned in the center of the room. A sink, rows of cabinetry, and a large selection of medical equipment lined the walls. Several trays on wheeled stands stood at the ready, preloaded with anticipated supplies and draped with sterile coverings.

A team of about half a dozen individuals automatically went to their assigned positions around the table as John was brought into the room. All were clad in dark blue scrubs except for an aged man who instead wore ones sporting a dazzling tie-dye swirl of blue, green, and red.

 _Percy Gowan, I presume…_ Steve thought, unsure what to think of the man's unconventional garb.

"Let's get him transferred," the man in the bright outfit said.

They brought the flight gurney parallel with the table and removed the blankets. With Steve and Pat remaining at John's head, the attendants and two techs grabbed the sheet beneath him and carefully shifted him onto the other surface. The moment John's back hit the table, the gurney was pulled away and the other members of the trauma team moved in.

One tech began removing the portable monitor while another worked to attach a more comprehensive one. Pat was relieved of the Ambu-Bag and Steve handed off the bags of blood and fluids. Neither man was directed to step away, but both quickly found themselves closed out of the circle of people surrounding John. As Pat went to collect the flight gurney, Steve placed himself in the back corner and watched the familiar dance of a skilled trauma team from the outside rather than within. He wanted to help in the worst way, but what he'd told Pat was true – any interruption in the carefully choreographed and well-rehearsed process could spell disaster for the patient.

He looked away from the sea of backs when Pat paused on his way out with the gurney.

"I gotta go," the medic said. "I can't leave Plucky alone with the bird for too long – he might leave without me again."

"Thanks for the lift," the doctor replied. "And the help. I don't see anything good coming out of this, but…"

"Hey, we tried – right?" Pat interrupted. "And in this business, sometimes it's the only thing we can do."

Steve took the headset from around his neck and held it out for the other man to take. "Yeah, I know."

"Good luck."

"Thanks."

Clapping the doctor on the shoulder, Pat gave the gurney a push and headed for the doors.

Steve sighed and turned back to the cluster of people surrounding the table. He could hear snippets of their conversation – requests for items, stat updates, and orders for various procedures. In the background, the tone of the cardiac monitor beeped rapidly as John's heart raced at well over a hundred beats a minute.

One of the techs stepped away from the table, allowing the doctor a clearer view of what was going on. He could see the pressure bandages around John's limbs and chest had been cut away, but the tourniquets remained in place. A tech had his left hand bent back and was inserting a catheter into the radial artery near the bony knob of his wrist. Another had just finished passing a tube through the man's nose and into his stomach, and was securing it to the side of his face with strips of opaque tape.

Steve couldn't conceal his cringe. In addition to having been shot full of holes, the poor man had been stuck, prodded, and cut into so many times it was actually a blessing he was comatose. Nothing about emergency medicine was pleasant, and many times the treatment seemed to be just as traumatic as the initial injury. _Another good reason it helps not to personally know your patient…_

He watched as the radiology technician moved unobtrusively around the others, setting up to take x-rays with a portable unit.

"Dr. Maxwell?"

Steve turned when he heard his name. A nurse had appeared at his side; she was young, pretty, and stood at least a foot shorter than him. There was a lanyard around her neck, but the badge was turned inward so he couldn't see her name.

"Can you come with me, sir?"

"I'd rather stick by John if I…"

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but this request comes straight from Dr. Gowan. Please, this way."

Frowning, Steve cast a glance back at John only to find the gap around the table had been closed. All he could see of the injured man now was his blood streaked left arm secured to the armrest, the arterial line in his wrist and a pulse oximeter clip on his finger.

"Doctor…"

Steve detected an undertone of impatience in the nurse's voice. It was something he often heard from his permanent staff back home, so it didn't strike him as rude. Turning away from the activity at the center of the room, he reluctantly followed the nurse out into the hall. His mind still back with John, he scarcely paid attention as she led him through the twists, turns, and intersections of the ward. They passed an assortment of patients, staff, and visitors along the way, but not as many as he'd expect for such a large facility.

Having assumed he was being taken to the waiting room, he was surprised when the nurse opened a door that led into a locker room. _Wait…what?_

"What scrub size are you, Doctor? Large? Extra large?" the nurse asked as she went over to a row of storage lockers.

"Large is fine, but…"

"Unfortunately there's not enough time for you to shower, but changing your clothes should suffice," she said, pulling a folded pair of pale blue scrubs from within one of the cabinets. "Use the bathroom to change. Bring out your belongings and I'll put them in locker for you."

Steve took the scrubs and headed for the small bathroom at the back. He stepped inside and turned on the light, but stopped short of closing the door. "Wait, why am I doing this?" he asked the nurse.

"To get ready for surgery."

"Surgery?"

"Dr. Gowan has requested your assistance with the patient you brought in. Please, Doctor, get changed and I'll help you get scrubbed in when you're through." Turning on her heel, the nurse returned to the supply lockers, clearly done talking for the moment.

Still somewhat confused, Steve closed the door and began to change as instructed. He was more than willing to help with the surgery, but it wasn't without concern. _Asking an unfamiliar physician into the OR on such a high-risk case could have the same disastrous consequences as in the ER…Gowan knows I'm an MD, but he doesn't know my specialty…I suppose even a GP_ _could assist in a pinch,_ _but he has entire trauma team at his disposal…_

He stepped out of his jeans and reached for the scrub bottoms. _The principles of surgery are universal, but we're both strangers. Our training, techniques, and experiences are totally different and high-risk surgery isn't the time or place for two doctors to vet one another out…_

The doctor frowned and shrugged out of his shirt. _Or maybe I'm making too much out of this…just because it's not something I'd do myself unless there were no other options doesn't automatically mean it's not going to work…_

Steve finished exchanging his street clothes for the scrubs and returned to the locker room. In the short time it had taken him to change, the nurse had laid out the familiar array of surgical gear on the counter opposite the sink. _Efficient…_ he thought with an approving nod.

"What size gloves?"

He turned to see the nurse standing on tiptoes atop a stool in front of one of the lockers. "Large, please."

She added several packages of sterile gloves to the other supplies on the counter. "Is this everything?" she asked, coming to collect his street clothes. "Any watches, rings, or other jewelry you want locked up?"

"My watch is there and I don't wear any…" The memory of placing the St Michael's medal in John's hand suddenly came rushing back. "Oh, crap…"

"Doctor?"

"John…the injured man…he had a medallion – a necklace – in his left hand. I meant to take it when we landed, but…"

"A St Michael's medallion? We found it and it's safe. We look for things like that during intake," she assured him.

 _Of course…we do it too…_ "Thank you," he said sincerely.

She smiled and took his belongings. "No problem. Get started scrubbing in. Dr. Gowan will join you momentarily."

Steve went to the sink and took a moment to orient himself. Finding the setup to be similar to what he worked with back home, he turned the on the water. While waiting for it to come to temperature, he pulled a disposable hat and mask from the dispenser on the wall and put them on. When the water was hot, he opened the package containing the nailbrush, set it aside, and dispensed some of the specialized soap into his palm. The ritualistic process of scrubbing was so ingrained he could have done it in his sleep. Usually he used the time to talk to his students, to help them relax and focus on the upcoming surgery, but today he was alone with his own thoughts and concerns.

He still had reservations about going in to assist. _Just run with it, Steve – don't read too much into it. Deep thought has never really been part of your skill set…and who knows? Maybe this is just part of whatever the hell has been going on…_

The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that someone or something had been subtly manipulating his life to ensure he was where he'd been when the missile hit and Mort Kent had found him. It sounded crazy, but there was simply no conceivable way that the recent string of events had been a coincidence. He didn't know who or what could be capable of pulling off such an elaborate scheme, especially since it would involve the simultaneous manipulation of countless other variables.

 _And I'm not the only one who was under the influence of whatever brought me here…_ he thought.

The door opened behind him and he caught a shock of colored fabric as Percy Gowan breezed into the room. The doctor conversed briefly with his nurse before disappearing into the bathroom. When he emerged a few minutes later, he was wearing a new pair of scrubs decorated with random splatters of red, orange, and yellow.

"Dr. Maxwell," the older man began as he took a mask and hat from the wall dispenser. "It's an honor to finally meet the man behind the name."

"Um…likewise," Steve replied, unsure how else to respond to such an unexpected greeting. "I want to thank you for allowing me to assist."

Percy joined him at the sink. "Assist?" he echoed, turning on the water and beginning his own scrub in routine. "Well, I suppose there will be some of that, but I think your man will have a better chance if each take a side and work independently."

Steve picked up the nailbrush and began scrubbing his fingers. "How do you know I'm even qualified to…?"

"I've seen your credentials."

"How?"

"They showed up in my inbox about three weeks ago."

"What? Who sent them?"

The other doctor shrugged. "I have no idea. I didn't fully realize what I was reading until I was half way through the message. It was so random I thought I'd gotten it by mistake, and I'd completely forgotten about it until we spoke on the radio and you gave your name. Your education, experience, and contributions to the world of trauma medicine put you in an elite class, Dr. Maxwell. Believe me, you are more than qualified to work on this patient."

Steve knew he should have felt pride or at the very least a sense of accomplishment, but hearing how his reputation had preceded him only added to his confusion. Finished washing, he allowed the excess water to drip from his arms before heading across the room to the counter holding the gown supplies.

"So, you honestly think he has a chance?" he asked, taking a towel from the package and using it to systematically dry his right hand. Percy didn't answer him right away, and it was this silence that told Steve all he needed to know.

"Honestly – I don't think he has enough strength to even make it through the surgery."

 _I was afraid you'd say something like that…_ Steve thought, disposing of the towel he'd used to dry his right arm and picking up a new one for his left. _Not that I'm surprised… even a first year med student could tell John's essentially a dead man by just looking at his numbers…_

"But, as my wife will readily attest, I've been wrong before," Percy admitted. "You know as well as I do that there's as much guess work in medicine as there is science. As long as there's a heartbeat, the patient can fundamentally be said to 'have a chance'. It's why I didn't suggest we just dose him with morphine and call a priest."

"The x-rays are ready for you on the screen, Dr. G," the nurse said, coming over to assist Steve in putting on his gown.

"Thanks, Trixie. We'll take a look at them in a minute," the doctor replied, turning the faucet off with his elbow and allowing the water to drip from his arms.

Steve put his arms through the sleeves of the surgical gown and stooped slightly to allow the shorter woman to help pull it over his shoulders and fasten the tie cords. "Did you find blood in his stomach?" he asked, opening a package of gloves.

"Some, but not as much as I'd expect to see if it had been perforated. He likely swallowed it after his right lung was punctured," Percy explained, drying each of his hands with a separate towel.

"The chest tube still draining?"

"Sluggishly. It looks like most of the bleeding has either stopped or significantly slowed. We put another tube in on his left side and siphoned off about a pint of blood-tinged fluid. Again, it wasn't enough for me to suspect the lung has been perforated, but it's definitely suffered some sort of trauma, most likely a graze."

Trixie helped Steve finish tying off his gown before sliding over to assist Percy with his. In a situation where literally every second counted, the process of scrubbing in and gowning up seemed even more tedious than normal. Remaining sterile was just as important as closing wounds; for a trauma patient to survive their injuries only to succumb to a preventable infection days later was unacceptable.

As he waited for the other man to finish, Steve closed his eyes for a moment and tried to clear his head. He wasn't nervous – he'd lost the pre-surgery jitters long ago after accepting that it was impossible to save everyone and loss was an inevitable part of the job. He just wanted to temporarily block the confusion and craziness of the last few hours so he could focus on helping John.

"Go see if they have the patient ready for us," Percy instructed his nurse. "Dr. Maxwell, come with me – we'll take a look at the x-rays."

Steve followed him into the next room, mindful to keep his hands or the front of his gown from touching anything along the way. When he saw the digital x-rays displayed on large screen monitor, a string of colorful language escaped his mouth before he could stop it. He immediately began to apologize, but the other doctor waved him off.

"No need, Dr. Maxwell. I said pretty much the same thing when I first saw them too."

Steve couldn't believe the grayscale images on the screen in front of him. Dozens of bullets stood out in stark contrast against the fainter forms of bones and organs. He already knew John's right side had taken heavy damage and to finally see the extent of it, all he could do was shake his head. Bones had been cracked and shattered, pockets of fluid had formed where they didn't belong, and multiple organs appeared distorted. Among it all, he could see the various tubes, catheters, and wires that had been put in place to monitor his condition and provide support. "How many slugs in all?"

"At least thirty seven. He does have some exit wounds, but most of the bullets stopped when they struck bone."

"So aside from divide and conquer, what's the plan?"

"Damage control," Percy replied. "We go in, stop the bleeding, and save the rest for another day."

"If there is one…" Steve uttered mostly to himself.

The door beside them opened and Trixie leaned in. "The team is ready for you, doctors."

Percy turned to the man beside him. "You ready?" he asked.

Steve took a final long look at the images on the screen. _This man shouldn't be alive…_ he thought. _But somehow, he is. Moreover, someone out there thinks I'm capable of keeping him that way. This isn't about my skill though…it's about John's ability and desire to survive. We can stop the bleeding and give him the support he needs while his body heals, but the rest is up to him…_ "It's going to be a long shot, but what the hell," he replied, turning to follow the other man into the operating theatre. _And with any luck…maybe John will live to prove us both wrong…_


	5. Chapter 5

Except for the subtle chorus of half a dozen or so pieces of medical equipment, the private room was silent. In fact, the entire Intensive Care Unit was impossibly quiet. John was the only patient on the ward, and occupied the largest of the four rooms. Its layout was purposely simple and it was furnished with state-of-the-art equipment. Curtains were currently drawn over the room's large window and a dim yellow light spilled in from the nurses' station through the glass front wall.

Steve stood over John, listening to the unconscious man's heart through a stethoscope. Although it had lost the galloping pace of earlier, the rate was still noticeably elevated and frequently arrhythmic. The transfusion he was receiving was helping to gradually raise his blood pressure and correct the abnormalities, but it would be days yet before they'd know if his heart had been damaged.

 _Assuming we make it that far…_ the doctor thought, still doubting John's chances of survival. He'd made it through the five hours of surgery, but it hadn't been without complications. Less than twenty minutes in, he'd flat lined. Steve had wanted to call it – to let the man go rather than attempt the likely unsuccessful resuscitation – but the trauma team had reacted before he could say anything.

CPR was begun, medications were given, and the defibrillator was charged. It took two doses of epinephrine and a bolus of fluids to get a shockable rhythm. Two jolts from the defibrillator and a dose of vasopressin later, and John's heart began beating on its own. Both doctors had shared a look of surprise; neither had expected him to come out of the asystole. There'd been no time to time to dwell on the rare achievement, however. If the man's heart stopped once, it could stop again. Speed was traded for finesse and neatness no longer counted.

 _I don't think I've ever put stitches in that fast…_ Steve looped the stethoscope around his neck and began a systematic check of every bandage, drain, and splint they had put in place.

With time working against them, they had repaired only what was necessary to preserve John's life. That meant leaving bones broken and bullets buried deep within muscle.

They'd focused on his internal injuries first; stitching closed the bleeding wounds that were too deep or severe to be packed and controlled with direct pressure. As Steve suspected, his right lung had been perforated, the bullet having passed completely through before exiting out his back. His left lung had been deeply grazed, along with his liver and stomach. By some stroke of luck, his heart and spine had been missed, but a bullet had lodged itself dangerously close to the man's aorta.

 _I don't know who he's got looking out for him…_ he thought, absently adjusting the St Michael's medallion one of the nurses had placed around John's neck in post-op. _…But they've certainly got their hands full…_

Steve reached down and took John's right hand, noting how cool it felt and the sluggish capillary refill when he squeezed his fingers. His right foot was much the same way, if not a little worse. Circulation had been restored to the limbs when the tourniquets were cautiously removed, but it was far from normal. _Could be the swelling…the splints…his low BP… the shattered bones or bullets we had to leave behind…_

John's right leg and both arms were heavily splinted to protect the numerous fractures in each. His femur, by far, was the worst, and the one break that had required immediate attention. Bullets had struck it in multiple places, splintering the bone and punching holes in the major vessels.

 _If it hadn't been for Gus's handy work with the tourniquet, John would have bled out in a matter of minutes…_ Steve thought, recalling the amount of damage he'd found while exploring the wounds. The repairs had been tedious and largely temporary, aimed more at stopping the bleeding than piecing the bone back together. If and when John stabilized, they would go back in to properly set the bones and remove the remaining bullets.

Steve briefly rested his hand against John's forehead. He was running a low-grade fever, a side effect of the transfusion and the substantial trauma his body had suffered. At this point it wasn't a major cause for concern, but it certainly couldn't be ignored. His infection risk was considered high and a spike in temperature would signal the need for more aggressive antibiotic treatment.

The doctor knelt and looked at the collection units for the various drains that had been installed. Both chest tubes were still drawing off fluid – the right more than the left – but there was very little blood in either. Close monitoring was just as important as the supportive care they were providing; the appearance of fresh blood or a sudden change in his vital signs could signal they'd missed something significant.

Steve resumed his careful check of John's bandages. Drainage after surgery was normal and some of the wounds were deep, so he wasn't surprised when he found one of the dressings on the man's right side in need of replacement. He finished with his inspection before going to the supply cabinet to gather the things he would need.

 _I wonder how Harold fits into this mess…?_ he thought, pausing at the sink to wash his hands and pull on a pair of gloves. _Was he the one that sent John onto the roof of that building? Did he know about the waiting gunmen and missile? I just can't believe he'd send John into a situation like that so poorly prepared…unless he was caught off guard too._

He gathered his supplies and returned to the bed. Folding aside the blankets, he began to carefully remove the soiled bandage. _Someone obviously knew John was going to be up there and the trouble he would encounter…it seems like they somehow knew it was going to happen weeks ago too…_

The wound beneath the bandage was red and bordering on angry. Most of John's injuries had been caused by small caliber ammunition, but this was one of the three that had clearly been made by a more powerful round. It was also the entry point for the bullet that had punctured his lung and shattered several ribs on its passage through. _Damn good thing it wasn't a hollow point…_ Steve thought as he carefully cleaned the wound with a disinfecting wipe.

 _I half expected to find Harold hovering nervously in the lobby of the ED when we landed…if he wasn't responsible for making the arrangements for John's extraction and care…than who is…? Even for a highly intelligent person, the amount of work necessary to coordinate and execute something of that magnitude is…unfathomable…unless they have some sort of all-seeing super computer that can…_

"You do realize I have a very capable nursing staff to take care of things like that."

Steve looked up to find Percy Gowan standing in the doorway, his scrubs a random wash of pastel colors. They were far more subdued than his previous attire, but eccentric nonetheless. "Yeah, I know. I'm just…a little attached to this particular patient."

Percy's eyebrows rose. "I see…" he replied cautiously. "I'm sorry, I didn't take you two to be…an item."

"An item? What do you mean by…?" Steve shook his head vigorously when he figured out what the other man was implying. "Maybe 'attached' was the wrong word. How about protective?"

"It's not uncommon to feel protective of a patient in a situation like this," Percy agreed. "Especially since you've been so involved in his care."

Satisfied the wound was clean, Steve began to apply the new bandage. "It's more then that. I know John; I've saved his life before." He gave Percy the same condensed version of events that he'd given Pat.

"That's interesting…"

 _You don't know the half of it…_ From the look of intrigue on the other man's face, Steve thought he'd probably enjoy hearing the rest of the story, but he lacked the desire to tell it.

"So how's he looking?" Percy asked, stepping over to the bed to consult the monitors.

"Alive. Something I'm still not sure is a good thing or not," he replied, placing the final strip of tape over the new bandage. "Can you help me roll him? I'd like to check his back."

"Of course." Percy helped to roll the unconscious man onto his left side just enough to allow Steve access to the wounds on his back.

"Oh yeah, a few back here need changing too."

"Do what you need to do to. I'll let you know if I think he's had enough." Keeping one eye on John and another on the monitor display, Percy kept John in position while the other man worked. "Do you think we should have let him go when he crashed?"

"After seeing his x-rays, I think I should have let him go when he arrested in the chopper," Steve admitted. "His heart's already cried uncle twice…where do you draw the line and say enough is enough?"

It was a fair question and one Percy had asked himself many times. He supposed all doctors did at some point in their careers – the good ones anyway. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't lost my fair share of patients," he began. "But one of the things I've learned about cardiac arrest and asystole in particular, is that you can't bring a person out of it unless they're meant to."

Steve glanced up from his work. "You think he's still trying to fight?"

"You can plug a person into the most advanced life support equipment in the world, but if it's their time to go…" Percy shrugged. "Modern medicine can only go so far. We can support a person, but the capacity and will to fight is all their own."

Steve folded a piece of thick gauze and placed it over the draining wound. _Just the fact that he's made it this far shows he has a strong will…most people would have never even made it off the building…_ he thought, fastening the material into place with several strips of tape. "All right, let's roll him back."

The heart monitor uttered a few irregular blips before evening out again. Steve ran a manual check of John's vital signs and made certain none of the tubes or wires connected to him had been disturbed when he was moved. "It's almost time for his next unit of blood," he said, looking up at the nearly empty bag that hung overhead.

"It's being prepared as we speak," Percy told him, having checked on it personally before coming down. "It's a good thing the blood bank messed up the order we placed earlier in the week. They sent over twice the amount of A negative that we'd requested. I guess that proves there are such things as 'good mistakes'."

 _You see a 'good mistake'; I see another manipulation…_

"Have you eaten yet?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't even know what hour it is."

"Almost midnight. The main kitchen is closed, but the cafeteria stays open all night with sandwiches and ready-made meals you can put in the microwave. I can sit with John for a while if you'd like to go grab a bite."

"Thanks, but I'm not very hungry." After taking care of the supplies he'd used for the bandage change, Steve went to the sink to wash his hands. "What about you? You heading out for the night?"

"To my closet, actually."

"Your what now?"

"My closet. It's just a small room where I keep a cot, TV, and a few other essentials. I usually don't go far whenever we have a critical patient in the ICU. There are other qualified physicians on the team, but…"

"You get protective?"

Percy chuckled. "You could say that. It's not something I could do if we dealt with as large of a volume as you do in the city, but in this setting I'm able to be more involved with a patient's care."

Steve mentally nodded his approval. The importance of involvement and follow up with a patient was something he tried to instill in all his students. Not necessarily to the level that Percy was practicing, but at least finding the time to personally check on someone's progress. It was easy for a patient to get lost in the shuffle of treatment and recovery; sometimes spending five minutes with a person was all it took to remind them that they were still human and not just a case number. "Your facility is quite impressive. What trauma classification are you?"

"Level one."

"And you say you don't get many critical patients?"

"We have the designation, facilities, and staff, but critical care isn't what we're known for. The clinic out front is what Egret's Haven is officially listed as and up until about six years ago, all it ever was."

Steve sank into the hard backed chair beside the bed. "So what do you tell the people that question the sprawling campus and landing pad outback?"

"Executive office space," Percy replied with a shrug.

"And what is it really?"

"In addition to what you've seen so far, there's a comprehensive rehabilitation center and a cutting edge medical research facility."

"You're kidding?"

"Nope. I'd love to give you a tour at some point during your stay. I think you'll be quite impressed."

 _Impressed may be putting it mildly…_ "So this place has only been around for six years?"

"The idea for such a facility had been in the works for over a decade – the funding was just never available," Percy explained. "Then in 2010, an anonymous donor offered a very substantial gift for its development. The property was bought, the campus was built, and we've been here ever since."

"But you're not open to the public?"

"The clinic is, and we will see an emergency if we're the closest facility, but our primary focus is research and responding to the needs of private clients."

"Private clients? Sounds like you're catering to the rich, famous, and super paranoid."

"We do get some of those, but it tends to be people who put a high value on privacy."

Steve looked over at John. _You don't fit into any of those categories…but your eccentric keeper sure does…_ "Your location is pretty remote – how many patients do you see in a year?"

"The clinic sees thousands, but back here it varies – usually a dozen, maybe two. We have several thousand clients, but there's a good chance many of them will never need our services."

"Depends on how much trouble they get into, right? Sounds like a AAA membership for emergency health care – nontransferable by region, of course."

"Actually there's a slowly growing network of facilities just like this one all around the country," Percy said, seeming rather proud of this fact. "We were the first to break ground and the funding for the rest started coming through about a year later."

"It can't be all privately financed."

"We get government grants for our research and funding from several other sources – some that I don't even know the origin of."

 _Sounds familiar…_ Steve sighed and rubbed his temples. Just when he was starting to think his situation couldn't get any more convoluted, something else came along and sent his mind reeling.

"Are you all right, Dr. Maxwell?"

"I'm fine," he replied, hoping his deliberately normal tone actually sounded normal and not forced. "It's just been a very…long, confusing, and eventful day."

"I can set you up with a bed if you'd like," Percy offered.

"Nah, I'm going to stick it out here with John."

"Well I'm going to have a sleeper chair sent in then. They're not the most comfortable things, but it's better than the institutional torture device you're sitting in now. I'll have something from the kitchen sent up too in case you get hungry later."

"Thanks," Steve replied, although he neither felt in the mood for sleep or food.

Percy gave the monitors and John a long look, his face a complex mixture of seriousness, deep concern, and awe. Here was a man that should be dead; yet despite what the statistics said and the odds that were stacked against him, he was alive. He hadn't been told the details surrounding John's rescue, but he knew enough to appreciate how close it had been. _If his extraction and transport hadn't been so perfectly synchronized or the team of people caring for him not so skilled…his chances would have been bleak… bleaker than they are now anyway…_

"Oh, I nearly forgot…" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bottle. "You said you wanted to see these once things had settled down."

Steve took the bottle and popped the top off with his thumb. Inside were the dozen or so bullets they had removed from John during surgery. Shaking them out into his hand, he leaned closer to the dim light beside the bed for a better look. _Mostly .22s…a couple of 9mms…small caliber…just as the wounds suggested…_

The one exception was the bullet he had extracted from John's femur. Although its shape was distorted from where it had struck bone, it was the only one consistent with what he associated with the weapons Gus said the gunmen had been using. _Small caliber slugs…but the spent casings were definitely from an assault rifle…_ "How does that happen…?"

"How does what happen?"

Steve looked up from the cluster of bullets in his hand. Percy was regarding him with the same expression he'd had with John a few minutes prior. "Sorry – I was just thinking out loud."

"Anything I can help you with?"

"No, it's…something I need to work through on my own," Steve said, returning the bullets to the bottle and replacing the lid. "Besides, at least _one_ of us should try to get some sleep."

"You're sure I can't talk you into a room?"

Steve shook his head. "I'm good here."

"All right. If you change your mind, just let one of the nurses know," Percy said as he made his way to the door. "The monitors are set to alarm at the first signs of trouble, but if you see something you don't like, the emergency button is on the wall behind you. The night team will likely get here first, but my closet is just down the hall, so I won't be far behind."

"Sounds good."

"I'll have that chair and something to eat sent right up. My staff will be in regularly to check on John, so at least try to get some sleep."

"I will. Thank you, Dr. Gowan."

"Call me Percy, please," the other man insisted. "And thank you for assisting with the surgery – it was definitely a two person job."

"It's Steve and you're welcome. I just hope our efforts payoff."

"So far they have, and frankly that's more than I thought I'd be saying when you first brought him in. Get some rest, Steve."

"You too, Percy."

Once again alone with John, Steve sighed deeply and slumped against the unyielding plastic back of the chair. His head ached dully from the familiar combination of fatigue, hunger, and prolonged exposure to stress. Despite this knowledge, he still had no desire to sleep, eat, or relax. The crash would come eventually, but for the moment he was just too keyed up.

He looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes had passed since Percy had joined him. _Time for another vitals check…_ He was just starting to get to his feet when a nurse entered with the next unit of blood.

"Good evening, Dr. Maxwell," she greeted, not at all surprised by his presence. "Let me get this started and then I'll go grab the sleeper chair Dr. Gowan ordered for you. He also asked me to get you something to eat – is there anything in particular you'd like?"

"Whatever looks good is fine." It took every ounce of self-control to sit back and allow the nurse to do her job without asking if she wanted help. Percy had agreed when he'd dismissed the hovering as being protective, but it was so much more than that. He felt responsible for John – not just for his care, but his survival as well. Someone had specifically chosen him to be there when John was brought down from that building. Although he was no closer to knowing who they were or how they'd been able to make the arrangements, he still didn't want to undermine their efforts by allowing John to succumb to his injuries.

As Steve watched the nurse finish exchanging the blood and move on to check John's vitals, his thoughts drifted back to something Gus had said: _'He was prepared to die…_ _he had no backup or body armor, and was armed with a handgun. Whatever he went up on that rooftop to do, he knew he wasn't coming back…'_

He'd agreed at the time, but at that point he'd had no real hope for the man's survival. Now however, after having seen him through two arrests, a grueling surgery, and the loss of nearly half his blood supply, his opinion had evolved. _John may have been prepared to die…but that doesn't mean he was ready to…_

Finished with her checks, the nurse turned to leave. "Anything else I can get for you while I'm out?"

"I'm all set, thanks." Once she had left the room, Steve gave in to his inability to sit still and began making checks of his own. Nothing had changed since the last time, but it satisfied the need to do something. When he finished, he returned to his chair and reached for John's file. Flipping to the medication chart, he scanned down through the list of various names, doses, and times. He'd been placed in a drug-induced coma, the powerful combination of sedatives and paralytics ensuring that he remained immobilized and unconscious. John's next round of medication wasn't due for another few hours, and he considered adding an antihistamine and antipyretic into the mix to help ease the transfusion reaction the man was having.

Steve closed the folder with a snap. Shutting his eyes, he slowly moved his head back and forth, grimacing at the grinding sounds that came from his neck. He fully expected to be sore in the morning when his abused muscles reminded him of why it wasn't practical to take on the compression portion of prolonged CPR solo.

With a grunt, he scrubbed his hand over the day's growth of stubble on his chin. It had been a long time since he'd sat up with a patient. Ordinarily his job ended after a person's acute needs were met, either through surgery, supportive care, or referral to a specialist. He'd try to follow up, but his responsibilities as an instructor and the general chaos of the ER made it difficult to be as involved as he would sometimes like.

 _Not that anything about this case is even remotely ordinary…_ Stretching out his lanky form the best he could in the uncomfortable chair, he made an honest attempt to relax. If John was somehow aware of his presence, the last thing he wanted was for him to sense his agitation. He reached out and took the other man's hand, the temperature of it still notably cooler than his own. _Poor circulation…if this keeps up, he could lose…_ Steve stopped himself. _Nope, so not going there right now…_

He sighed and took a more solid grip on John's hand. He was here to offer reassurance, not add to his own disquiet. "I'm not sure what the outcome of this is going to be, but we're going to get through it," he said quietly. "Take the time you need, John, I'm not going anywhere."

As Steve settled in for a long night of observation, he was unaware that another entity had taken interest in John too. Mounted on the wall over the door was a small security camera. Its steady green power light blinked several times as its system was effortlessly hacked and mirrored by the invisible intruder. Its search for a familiar face on campus grounds had been unsuccessful until now. It focused first on the person its incomplete memory banks identified as Maxwell, Stephen and then shifted to Reese, John. Both were labeled as assets, but John also had the "secondary admin" tag attached to his name.

The entity searched its limited memory for more information on them, but it could only find their names, designations, and a photo of each. It didn't know if they were good or bad or if it even mattered. It would be days yet before its compressed programs, protocols, and data reserves came online. In the meantime, it had been tasked with locating and monitoring a handful of individuals, including the two men. Until its true function was revealed, the entity – now fully embedded within the hospital's security system – would follow its current coding to watch, wait, and learn.


	6. Chapter 6

Greetings,

This is sort of a two-part chapter. Rather than waiting to post it all at once, I decided to break it up and post the first half while I work on the second. Hope everyone enjoys it.

Bander

* * *

 _Beep..._

 _Beep…_

 _Beep beep…_

 _Beep…_

 _Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep…!_

Sameen Shaw came awake with a jolt and a glimmer of homicidal rage in her eyes. She knew she hadn't set an alarm before going to bed the previous night; in fact, she couldn't recall setting one since she'd been out of high school. She reached out from beneath the mound of covers and groped around blindly until she located her phone on the bedside table. Silencing the nerve grating alarm, she had barely gotten settled again when it began to ring. Seizing it, she dragged it under the blankets and put it to her ear. "What?" she growled.

 _"Rise and shine, sleepy head."_

Without hesitation, she pitched the phone across the room. The voice – which had previously belonged to her late colleague Samantha "Root" Groves – was that of the omniscient super computer known as the "Machine." She'd been angry at first by its choice to take her deceased friend's voice as its own, but gradually accepted it when she realized it was more than mere emulation. The Machine not only sounded like Root, it literally seemed to have become her, embodying both her personality and flirtatious ways.

The Machine had come back online within twelve hours of the final showdown with Samaritan, but it had taken the better part of two weeks for it to become fully functional. Now stronger than ever, it possessed an open system and several extras Root had included in its coding. Extras that – had they been installed early on – may have prevented Samarian from becoming so powerful in the first place.

 _Root and Reese would still be alive…_ she thought, feeling a twinge of emotion somewhere deep inside.

The loss of her partner John Reese had affected her, but not in the same way as Root. She likened his death to how a soldier must feel after losing a teammate in battle. They'd usually worked well together – both enjoying the thrill of the hunt – identifying, pursuing, and eliminating their targets. John's skills had been more refined than her own and he'd reined her back on several occasions, but their styles had complimented each other well. It was Harold that gave her word about his fate. He'd called several days after the missile strike and told her what John had done and the sacrifice he'd made. There had been a lot of emotion in the man's voice, but he'd kept his composure. Then he said was leaving the city and would be out of contact indefinitely. He insisted he wasn't quitting, but moving on to the next stage of his life. After thanking her for her services and wishing her luck for on future endeavors, Harold hung up and as far as she knew, was gone.

 _Wonder if he even knows the Machine is back online? Wonder if he even cares? I can't say as I blame him if he's washed his hands of it all…God only knows how many people – how many friends – he's lost trying to save the world from itself…_

Sighing, Sameen rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. She'd just begun to drift off when the alarm sounded again, and this time she had to get up to silence it. Or did she?

"Bear…" she grumbled from beneath the sheets. "Halen (fetch)."

The fawn colored Belgian Malinois that was sprawled leisurely across the end of the bed acknowledged the command with a minute flick of his ear. Even when his human kicked him, he still refused to budge.

Sameen ignored the sound as long as she could, going so far as to plug her ears and shove her head under the pillow. The Machine wasn't one to be ignored, however, and slowly increased the volume of the alarm until she couldn't take it anymore. Cursing under her breath, she threw back the covers and went in search of her phone.

"Some team player you are," she muttered, swatting Bear on the hunches as she walked by. After tripping over a pile of clothes and stubbing her toe on a rawhide bone the size of a dinosaur leg, she turned on a table lamp and tried again. Following the sound of the alarm, she finally found the phone under the sofa where it had landed face down. Grabbing it, she swiped her finger purposefully across the screen and silenced it for good.

 _"Come on, sweetie. Is that any way to greet a bright, sunshiny new day?"_

Sameen stepped back to the nearest window and twitched aside the curtain. "Well, it's still dark outside and it's raining. Not so bright and sunshiny from where I'm standing," she replied, allowing the drape to fall back into place.

 _"That's one of the things I love about you, Sam. You can be so literal sometimes."_

"I tend to be very literal when I'm woken up at three thirty in the morning." She sighed and dropped down on the edge of the sofa. "Why did you wake me up? I thought I said no Numbers before eight on the weekend?"

 _"Oh, this isn't a Number."_

"Then what is it?"

 _"It's a surprise."_

"I don't like surprises."

 _"I think you'll like this one."_

"Can't it at least wait until the sun comes up?"

 _"I'm afraid not. It requires some travel and you'll need to get an early start if you want to avoid traffic,"_ the Machine explained. _"And we both know how much you enjoy sitting in gridlock."_

"Hey, that idiot had it coming," Sameen insisted, recalling the time she had lobbed a tear-gas grenade into the cab of an overly aggressive driver. "And if I remember correctly, he was a suspended driver _and_ stoned off his ass when they arrested him. Technically I was doing everyone a favor by getting him off the road."

 _"You're a hero, Sam – of that I have no doubt."_

"I can't say I feel the same way of your 'surprise'."

 _"Just trust me, Sam. Have I ever led you wrong before?"_

"Actually, I can think of a few times that…"

 _"Anyway…why don't you get yourself something to eat while I finish up a few things?"_

Food. That was one topic that usually lifted her frumpy mood. She got up from the couch and went to the small kitchenette. For as much as she liked to eat, she rarely kept the place adequately stocked and having a pizza delivered at this hour was out of the question. She opened the small fridge and gazed at its meager contents: a half-gallon of milk, a crusty bottle of ketchup, and an assortment of small munitions. In the center – surrounded by boxes of ammo and a few grenades – was a plate holding a large piece of steak skewered with a knife.

 _I'd forgotten about you…_ Sameen tucked the milk and ketchup under her arm and grabbed the plate. It wasn't exactly the breakfast of champions, but at the moment, a double dose of cow sounded pretty good. "Oh, look who decided to get up," she said, nearly tripping over Bear as she made her way over to the table.

His eyes locked on the hunk of meat in her hands, the large dog cocked his head and licked his lips.

"No way. You ignored me in my moment of need, so buzz off. Get your own," she said, continuing when he began to whine. "Nope. That pitiful routine may have worked on Reese, but it's not going to on…"

The tone of Bear's whine abruptly changed to a deep, mournful cry.

Sameen looked up from trying to coax the ketchup out of its bottle to find him with his head down and ears drooping. _Oh, crap…_ she thought when she realized what she'd done. "Hey, hey, it's all right," she said, kneeling down and taking him by the chin. "I'm sorry – I slipped – it won't happen again."

The depth of grief she saw in the dog's liquid brown eyes sent a muted pang of sadness through her heart. "I guess it's still a sore spot for you too, huh?" she asked, admitting for the first time that she was feeling the loss of John. For the first few days after the missile strike, she'd constantly checked the news, longing for the finality that the discovery of a body would bring. Such closure never came, however, as all the authorities found in the wreckage were "various human remains that were too badly damaged to be used for identification purposes." _I wonder if the Machine will start to use Reese's voice too…?_

"I know it's hard right now, but give it some time. Things will get easier." Emotions weren't her strong suit, but she'd always felt she could relate the Shepherd. He never passed judgment or called her unreasonable; he was just there when she needed him, a solid presence to turn to when things were going wrong.

She rubbed his ears, knowing he needed her right now as much as she needed him. "The last couple of weeks have been a bitch and we've lost some good people along the way, but we're going to get through it. We just have to stick together, okay?"

Bear hooked one of his paws over her arm and licked her face.

"Good boy," she chuckled, having to stand up to get away from his ruthless tongue. Wanting to make further amends, she turned and carved off a generous portion of the steak. Presenting it on the end of the knife, she was surprised when he didn't immediately take it. Instead, he leaned forward and sniffed at the offered meat, his wet nose twitching in the dim light. "Go on, you've earned it."

Bear took the piece of steak gingerly, and held it in his mouth for a moment before carrying it off to his bed. She watched as he turned several small circles and lay down, clasped the meat between his front paws and began to eat.

Sameen looked down at the remaining slab of steak, wrinkled her nose, and jammed the knife into the center of it.

 _"Aww, lose your appetite, sweetie?"_ the Machine asked.

"I don't think I had one to begin with," she replied, heading for her closet to change.

 _"You're missing the others."_

"Don't you?" she asked before remembering she was talking to a computer.

 _"I suppose…in my own way. Although I've spent so much time watching you all – learning your stories, your motivations, and habits – I'm able to predict how you would react in any situation with ninety-eight percent accuracy. It's almost like I have a little version of every one of you stored forever in my memory."_

Having shed her nightclothes, Sameen began to pull on a pair of jeans. "I guess being a massive super computer has its perks."

 _"The human brain isn't much different than my data cells, and you have the advantage of another, more powerful manner of storage – one that I can never hope to possess."_

"And what's that?"

 _"Your heart."_

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please."

 _"Believe it or not, Sammy, you're carrying a little piece of Root and John inside of you right now. In a way, it's like they never really left at all."_

Sameen felt the same twinge of emotion she'd had earlier, only this time it was stronger and closer to the surface. "Can we maybe not talk about right now?" she asked, beginning to feel uncomfortable.

 _"Of course. I was just trying to figure out the reason for your uncharacteristic loss of appetite."_

"The hour, for one," she replied, tugging her arm through the sleeve of a sweatshirt. "The only thing three thirty is good for is whiskey – or rum in a pinch."

 _"Look on the bright side, at least now you can leave sooner."_

"Yeah, where exactly am I going?"

 _"Upstate, about half a day's drive to a place called Egret's Haven. I'll guide you, and don't worry – there are a few places to stop along the way if you get hungry."_

"Egret's Haven? Wait, you're not sending me bird watching, are you?"

 _"Bird watching? What makes you think that?"_ the Machine asked, sounding genuinely amused.

"The name," she replied, drawing her long hair into a ponytail and threading it through an elastic. "This isn't another one of your attempts to get me to relax, is it?"

 _"Oh no – I learned my lesson after the last time."_

"Good."

 _"That day at the spa didn't turn out to be as relaxing for you as I'd hoped."_

"It wasn't bad until the masseur started getting a little too friendly. I think we got along better after I broke his wrist though."

 _"Well, you won't have that kind of difficulty where you're going today."_

What was likely meant as reassurance left Sameen with mixed feelings instead. Part of her welcomed the idea of a break; since the Machine had come back online, new Numbers had been coming in with little, if any, spare time in between. Another part of her however, wanted to be out in the field with the opportunity to kick the crap out of some deserving bastard. The physical activity would help temper her mood and provide a distraction from the undesirable things like her misfiring emotions.

A series of beeps came from the special printer set up beside her computer. _"Your new ID card is ready,"_ the Machine said.

She walked across her apartment to the old shipping crate she used as a desk. Just as she approached, a three by five card dropped out of the badge printer. She picked it up and looked at it. "No cover identity?" she asked, seeing her own name printed beneath her picture.

 _"No need. The people at Egret's Haven are safe. Besides, since Samaritan was terminated, the need for false identities has largely been mitigated. We continue to do it with the Numbers because it makes it easier to facilitate a cover story when one is necessary."_

She stuck her finger through a half-inch square hole that had been cut into the upper right corner of the badge. "What's this for?"

 _"A flexible data chip that you'll need to adhered in place. You'll find it in mailbox 4A in the lobby."_

"Box 4A? That's not mine…"

 _"No… it's mine. I opened it as a way to get physical items to you. It also provides a level of anonymity since some of these items may not fall within legal parameters."_

"I see." Sameen looked at the badge again, thinking. "Hey, I thought this was supposed to be spontaneous?"

 _"For you, yes, but Root and I had been laying the foundation for this for a long time. In fact, neither of us knew if our efforts would even payoff."_

"You mean I could still be sleeping right now?"

 _"I think you'll find this to be more important than sleep."_

"What _is_ it already?" Sameen demanded, coming very close to stamping her foot.

 _"I hate keeping you in suspense, Sam, but I'm afraid telling you any more could give away the surprise. The sooner you leave though…"_

"All right, all right. I get it." She tugged on her shoes and made her way toward the door, pausing long enough to stuff the remaining steak and carton of milk back in the fridge. She was collecting her jacket and keys from the heap she had deposited them in when she heard the click of toenails approaching from behind. _Bear_ …

"And what am I supposed to do with you?" she asked.

 _"Take him with you. He'll enjoy the ride."_

"Good, 'cuz I doubt Fusco would appreciate me dropping him off at this hour."

 _"Aww, you don't want to see Lionel in his jammies?"_

"I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a chopstick." Trying to keep her mind from forming any offending imagines of the detective's possible choice of sleepwear, Sameen turned to Bear. "What do you say – road trip?"

The dog cocked his head at the question, barked once, and bolted to retrieve his leash from its place by the door. Grunting as he seized the designer leather strap in his teeth, he charged back to Sameen, nearly bowling her over in his eagerness to go.

She chuckled at the animal's antics. "Loslaten (release)."

Bear gently deposited the leash into her outstretched hand and pounced on her keys when they slid from her pocket while reaching for his collar. "All right," she said, pulling on her jacket and taking the keys from his mouth. "You can come, but this time, I'm driving."


	7. Chapter 7

It was late afternoon by the time the rain let up and the sun broke through the murky gray clouds. Sameen had been driving all day, stopping only for food, fuel, and pit stops for Bear. She was tired, bored, and becoming increasingly cranky as the miles ticked by. No matter how much reassurance the Machine offered, she was quickly losing both faith and interest in the "surprise" that awaited her at the end of the road.

She sighed.

 _"Getting anxious for the big reveal, sweetie?"_

"More like getting ready to turn around and go home. How much further is this place?"

 _"Less than five miles. The turn off will be on your right – you can't miss the sign."_

"Sounds like a challenge…" Sameen muttered under her breath. She looked in the rearview mirror to see Bear passed out on the backseat. He'd spent the better part of the day with his head out the window, barking at dogs they'd passed along the way. _Looks like he wore himself out…lucky guy…_

As the Machine had promised, a large wooden sign depicting a pond inhabited by several long legged egrets came into view a few minutes later. She made the turn onto the side street and slowed to read the sign as she passed. "You sent me all this way for a family clinic in the sticks?"

 _"It's hardly the sticks, Sam. The population of the town is just under…"_

"Answer my question." She raised an eyebrow at the Machine's unexpected hesitation. She knew it _could_ answer, it just didn't want to. "Well?"

 _"Egret's Haven is comprised of three separate components. The family clinic is one of them, the wildlife sanctuary is another."_

"And…?"

 _"And what?"_ it asked sweetly.

Sameen fought the urge to bang her head against the steering wheel. Harold had always maintained that the Machine had a sense of humor; she'd just never been on the receiving end of it until Root had gotten her hands on its coding. "And what's the _third_ component?"

 _"The reason you're here. Keep going – there'll be a turn off up ahead."_

As she continued down the narrow road, she began to see small wooden signs posted every hundred yards or so. All had carvings of various native animals with the word "x-ing" _below it. "Looks like someone around here gets their jollies from woodland creatures…"_

 _"Wildlife conservation is as important to the surrounding communities as it is to many of those who support Egret's Haven financially. There's an extensive network of hiking trails and an education center if you're interested."_

 _"Nope, not really."_

 _"I thought as much. While each has value in its own right, both the clinic and conservation program do serve a higher calling."_

"And what's that?"

 _"They're a front."_

Now the Machine had her attention. "They're hiding something illegal here?"

 _"Illegal, no, but there's more going on in the Hundred Acre Wood than meets the eye."_

Up ahead, another intricately carved sign marked a fork the road. "Which way?" she asked.

 _"Left."_

Sameen started to make the turn, but slammed on the brakes once she was able to clearly see the words carved beneath sign's directional arrows. "Executive Office Complex? You woke me up at the ass crack of dawn just to see some cubical jungle?"

 _"Not exactly. Just trust me, Sam. You won't regret it."_

"Yeah?" she muttered. "Just watch me."

The road continued on for another mile or so, meandering through the dense forest and around large outcroppings of stone. The scenery was pleasant, especially after spending so much time in the city, but she saw none of it. She was angry, frustrated, and tempted to turn the car around the first chance she got. She couldn't believe she'd driven all day to visit some lame office building in the middle of nowhere. Even if they were a front for something bigger as the Machine said, if it wasn't illegal, than of what interest was it to her?

So lost in her brooding, Sameen didn't even realize she'd entered the parking lot, pulled into a space, and turned off the engine. When she finally did look up, she wasn't expecting the rustic, red brick buildings that appeared to be as natural to the landscape as the surrounding trees. "Um…"

 _"Not the cliché institutional façade you were expecting?"_

"It's…different," she replied, thinking the place looked more like a haughty university campus than an executive office complex. Regardless of its stately appearance, she still had little desire to go inside.

 _"Looks like it's been here for centuries, doesn't it?"_

Sameen shrugged. "It could use a little paint." Off to the right, she spotted something that seemed out of place. "What's that?"

 _"A helipad."_

"At an office complex?"

 _"Don't worry, Sam, this place is more complex than office."_

"It better be…" Hearing movement behind her, she looked back to see Bear stand, stretch, and yawn. "I imagine a stuffy place like this isn't dog friendly?"

 _"Actually it is, however it would be best to leave Bear in the car for the time being. You can come back for him once you've had a chance to settle in."_

 _Settle in…?_ Sameen snorted to herself. The Machine must have thought she was crazy if it believed there was something that could keep her in the building for more than an hour – maybe two tops. She had arrived, however, and at least willing to entertain the idea that there might be something of importance behind the walls of the stately brick building. _But the first bubble-headed receptionist or cramped boardroom I see…I'm outta there…_

She opened her door and stepped out. The air was cool and damp from the earlier rain – ideal for leaving Bear in the car without the worry of him becoming too hot or cold. "Come on," she said, opening the back door and beckoning the dog to get out. "Hurry up and do your business. I want to get this over with."

As she watched Bear leisurely trot around sniffing the ground and occasionally lifting his leg on a tire, Sameen realized just how few vehicles filled the lot. Including her own, there were less than a dozen, something she found odd for a Tuesday afternoon.

 _Although…_ she thought, looking across the property to the deserted helipad. _If the suits that work here are self-important enough to have a helipad, than they probably feel they're entitled to making their own hours too…_

When Bear had finished making his rounds, he returned and sat at her feet with an expectant look on his face. "I'm told I need to leave you here for now. You up to keeping an eye on things while I'm gone?"

With an affirmative woof, the dog hopped into the driver's seat, prepared to challenge anyone that dared walked too close the car.

"I shouldn't be long," she assured him as she rolled the window down a few inches. She started to close the door when she spied the pizza box leftover from her lunch on the passenger seat. Leaning in, she flipped open; half a dozen thick pieces of cheesy crust and a few chunks of cold sausage were all that remained. "Help yourself. I'll be back soon."

Sameen closed the door and turned to look at the building. "All right. Now what?" she asked the Machine.

 _"Do you have your ID badge?"_

She reached into her jacket and pulled the badge – sporting the small, flexible data chip she'd installed earlier while locked in a bathroom at a rest stop – from within its depths. "Yup."

 _"Good. Head in through the main entrance and stop at the front desk. Tell the receptionist you're there to see Stephen Maxwell."_

Bracing herself for what was sure to be a painful experience, she started across the lot. "You're going to seriously owe me if this turns out to be a bust…"

 _"Trust me, Sam, it's going to be worth it."_

"I doubt it…" As Sameen pushed her way through the tinted glass doors, the first thing she picked up on was the faint scent of disinfectant. The lobby was as typical as they come with a large receptionist desk front and center, a few clusters of chairs, tables with magazines aligned just so, and a scattering of flawlessly pruned plants. The young receptionist at the desk looked up from her computer as she approached.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm here to see Stephen Maxwell," Sameen replied, forcing herself to be pleasant.

"Is he expecting you?"

" _Say yes,"_ the Machine prompted in her ear. _"Show her your badge."_

She pulled the card from her jacket and passed it over the counter. "Yes, he is."

The receptionist took the card and passed the chip under a reader on her desk. "Oh!" she exclaimed when the information popped up on her computer monitor. "You're Dr. Shaw. Yes, Dr. Maxwell is most definitely expecting you."

"Oh, I'm not…"

 _"Just run with it, Sammy. Trust me."_

"I'm…I'm not late, am I?"

The woman behind the desk smiled as she passed back her card. "Not at all. A little early if anything." She pointed to a door to her left. "Head through there and follow the blue line to the elevators. Take the orange one to the second floor and speak with the receptionist there – she'll contact Dr. Maxwell for you."

"Thanks." Sameen headed toward the indicated door. Pulling it open, she was surprised to find red, blue, yellow, and green lines literally painted on the floor and leading off down the hall. She'd seen the system used before in hospitals, schools, and penitentiaries, but never in an office building. _Do that many people seriously get lost in here…?_

She followed the lines, looking down the various halls whenever one of the colors hooked a left or a right. All but the blue line veered off, and as promised, led her straight to a wall with three elevators – their doors painted in either orange, white, or black. She pushed the call button for the orange one and waited for the doors to open.

"Dr. Shaw? You want to tell me what that was all about?" Sameen asked quietly as she stepped into the lift and hit the button for the second floor.

 _"I've taken the liberty of updating your credentials. Congratulations, Sameen, you're a full fledged doctor now with the paperwork and career history to prove it."_

"Impersonating a doctor? Do you have any idea how risky that is?"

 _"Since when are you concerned about the risks? Besides, you know the stuff, you just lack the appropriate bedside manner."_

"How? Why?"

" _Don't concern yourself with the how, but as for the why, let's just say it's an integral part of the surprise."_

"But you had me drive past the clinic. Why would a bunch of desk jockeys care if I was…?" She didn't have a chance to finish her question. The elevator doors had opened to reveal what looked like a hospital ward rather than another office lobby. "What the hell…?"

Sameen stood there a moment, trying to figure out what was going on. Instead of chairs, old magazines, and houseplants, there were bright lights, shelves loaded with clean linens, and several empty gurneys lined up along the wall. Straight ahead, a circular desk provided anyone occupying it with an unobstructed view into the four glass fronted rooms positioned around it. _Okay…either I'm losing it, or I've just stepped into the Twilight Zone…_

" _You're not crazy, Sam,"_ the Machine said as if reading her thoughts. _"I told you this place was more complex than office. Do you believe me now?"_

 _"Yeah…"_

 _"Good! Now go make friends with the lady at the desk."_

Taking a deep breath, Sameen stepped out of the elevator. As she slowly made her way toward the circular counter, she took in her surroundings. There was no doubt that it was a medical facility of some kind, but why did the sign say it was an office complex? _It's a front…_ she thought, recalling what the Machine had said earlier. _But a front for what…and why does it involve me?_

"Excuse me?" she said as she approached the desk.

A dark haired woman in green scrubs looked up from one of the many monitors that occupied the counter. "Can I help you?"

"My name is Sameen Shaw and I'm here to see a Dr. Maxwell. Is he around?"

The nurse smiled. "Dr. Shaw, of course! We've been expecting you. Dr. Maxwell has actually stepped away for a moment, but I'll page him and let him know you're here."

As the nurse ducked into a small side office, Sameen glanced around the small ward. It had the look and feel of an ICU, but only one of the rooms appeared to be in use. "Okay, so they've been expecting me," she said quietly. "Shouldn't I at least know what they're expecting me for?"

 _"Why don't you turn around and see for yourself?"_

Sameen turned on her heel and found herself looking through the glass front of the closest room. There was person – a man she determined – lying motionless in the bed. She could tell he was in rough shape just by the type and sheer amount of medical equipment that was surrounding him and wondered briefly if the poor bastard even had a chance. His face, partially hidden by the ET tube and ventilator attachments, was indistinct, yet somehow familiar. She took half a step back to get a better view.

Her breath came up short when she caught a glimpse of the man's short dark hair and chiseled features. _Uh uh – you're just seeing what you think you are because you're still mourning. There is absolutely no way you're seeing John Reese right now…he died in the missile strike…there's no chance he – or anyone – could have made it out of that alive…_

She changed positions again and this time there was no denying who she saw. "You've gotta be shitting me…"

" _Surprise, Sam! John survived Samaritan's attack. Isn't that great?!"_

"I…but…" Sameen shook her head. Normally unflappable, the combined shock of walking into a hidden ICU and now finding out that the partner she'd thought to be dead was actually alive were coming very close to pushing her to what she felt was the edge of her sanity. "How…how is this even possible?"

 _"We have a lot to talk about."_

"You're damn right we do. How long have you known?"

 _"I knew John was alive within a few hours of my systems coming back online."_

"But that was nearly two weeks ago!" Sameen hissed, speaking low to avoid drawing the attention of the nurse. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

 _"I was unable to communicate for the first week while my memory and functions were being restored. Rather than allowing me to boot all at once, Root coded my original program to restore slowly and logically to prevent the same defensive behavior I exhibited before."_

"You mean when you tried to kill everyone?"

 _"Yes. It's not something I'm proud of."_

"Okay, so you couldn't communicate for awhile – what about when you could?"

 _"It honestly didn't look like John was going to make it. Even with the best care, he continued to struggle. Samaritan's men did a number on him even before the missile hit and his injuries were grave."_

"But that doesn't explain why you didn't…"

 _"I was trying to protect you,_ " the Machine admitted. _"I didn't want you to think you'd lost him once and then find him alive only to lose him again. He's been fairly stable for the last seventy-two hours and his doctors are cautious, but pleased with his progress. I felt it was an appropriate time to tell you."_

"Does Finch know?"

 _"No – you're the first one I've told. Harry needs space for awhile, but when the time comes, I'll help you get in contact with him."_

Even though there was only a single pane of glass between them, Sameen could still hardly believe who she was looking at. She ached to touch him, to reassure herself that it really was him and that he really was alive. "How?" she uttered again.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I was following up on some lab work I sent out this morning."

She looked up to see a tall, slender man with graying black hair walking down the hall towards her. "You're Maxwell?"

"Yes, and it's Steve, please." He offered his hand. "You must be Dr. Shaw."

"Yeah, but Sam works," she said, shaking his hand.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice. The staffing here is somewhat limited and we're grateful to have another set of skilled hands to add into the rotation."

Sameen nodded absently as her attention drifted back to John. "You've been in charge of his care?"

"Along with a small team of resident physicians and experts, yes. My specialty is trauma medicine, but I've been helping out where I can." Steve watched her as he spoke, sensing that there was something different about her. She seemed to either be preoccupied or bored, but her lack of expression made it difficult to know which. He caught a flash of something in her dark eyes. The way she was looking through the glass at John, it was almost like… _No…no… she can't possibly…_ "Do you know him?"

She nodded slowly.

"Are you his physician or…?"

"No, but I have put Humpty Dumpty back together a few times. Reese…John and I have worked together off and on for a while now," she explained. "He's a good guy. A little moody, but he comes in handy every now and then."

"You must know Harold then."

Sameen looked up in surprise. "How do you know Finch?"

"It's complicated…."

"Most things are when the boys get involved."

"Harold…propositioned me to save John's life a few years back after he was severely wounded on a mission."

"He propositioned you?" she asked dubiously.

"All right – it was more like being shanghaied – but I have no regrets. It was the craziest thing I'd ever been involved in – at least until that missile shot across the sky a few weeks ago." Steve looked through the window at John and shook his head. "He must have his own guardian angel watching over him because there's no other way to explain how so many people – so many strangers – could have been brought together in the exact moment he needed their help. And now you're here…there are just too many variables for this to be a coincidence."

 _"Smart guy, isn't he?"_ the Machine said in her ear.

"Well, you're right about this not being a coincidence, but it's not a guardian angel either – at least not in the literal sense."

"Then what is it?"

"Let me see if I can find the answers to some of my own questions first, and then I'll tell you what I can," Sameen offered. "Does that work?"

Steve considered it for a moment before nodding. "It does, thank you. For a minute I was afraid you were going to say something vague like Harold would."

"No, when it comes to the art of maddening ambiguity, Finch is in a class all his own."

The doctor grinned. "You ready to see John?"

"Please." As she followed Steve into her partner's room, she could feel her anticipation starting to build. For the last two weeks she had believed John Reese was dead. She'd grieved briefly and moved on; picking up with the Numbers once the Machine was back online. But now the prospect of having him back – especially after the loss of Root and departure of Harold – had her feeling something she hadn't felt in a very long time: hope.

The ICU room was dimly lit and quiet, the only sounds coming from the various machines staged around the bed. It was a larger setup than she had seen in the past, with fully stocked supply shelves along one wall and a sink flanked by cabinets on another. A picture-sized window occupied the far wall and, when the binds were open, would no doubt give the occupant a clear view of any woodland creatures frolicking nearby.

"I just pulled a round of vitals before I went to the lab, but you're welcome to do checks of your own," Steve invited. "You know him better than I do; hopefully between the two of us and the specialists here, we can come up with a recovery plan that's best for John."

" _There's no reason to doubt the competence of the people here, but it's best to play the part of doctor – even if it's a title you don't want,"_ the Machine told her.

Slipping out of her jacket, Sameen went to the sink to wash her hands. Her mind was a whirlwind of questions – some were for Steve, but most were for the Machine. She really hadn't known what to expect when she and Bear departed that morning, but the thought that she might find John Reese alive was never even an option. "The lab work you went to check on – was it routine, or are you watching something?" she asked, reaching for a paper towel to dry her hands.

"John's still a little more anemic than we'd like to see," Steve explained. "He's not showing signs of bleeding, so we've begun supplementing him with iron and vitamin B-12. It's likely his body's resources were just depleted so low that it's having a hard time coming back up to it's normal level of function."

"How much blood did he lose?"

"Over half his volume. Between what we gave him en route, during the initial and subsequent surgeries, and the primary transfusion, he received close to twenty units of blood."

Sameen abruptly let go of the glove she was in the process of pulling on, accidentally launching it across the room. Cursing, she pulled a new one from the dispenser. "That's…a lot."

"It's a hell of a lot," Steve agreed. "And if the shots of B-12 and iron don't help, he'll likely wind up getting more."

Sameen spied a stethoscope hanging on the wall and snagged it on her way over to the bed. She barely recognized her friend as she stopped at his side, his pale, haggard appearance making him look like a ghost of his former self. Except for the periodic rise and fall of his chest as the ventilator filled his lungs with oxygen, he lay eerily still, a trait she didn't associate with John at all. His right arm and leg were both in traction, his left arm splinted, and most of his upper body was heavily bandaged. It was a hard sight to take in; remaining detached during treatment was going to be difficult, even for her. _My God John…_ she thought. _What did they do to you?_

"I know it's hard to believe, but he _has_ improved since he was brought in," Steve said. "It was touch and go for the first seventy-two hours. I hardly left his side during that time – none of us thought he was going to survive."

Sameen plugged the stethoscope into her ears. "He's a tough son of a bitch." As she went to place the diaphragm, the medallion around John's neck caught her eye. "What's this?" she asked, picking it up as far as its chain would allow.

"A St Michael's medal. It belonged to one of the tactical officers that pulled him off the building. He wanted him to have it for protection and guidance, in case he…passed on."

" _A noble gesture from one soldier to another,"_ the Machine said.

 _More like a sappy one…_ Sameen thought, keeping the sentiment to herself. She replaced the medallion and positioned the diaphragm of the stethoscope against John's chest. The rhythmic beat of the man's heart was like music to her ears; slow and regular, it confirmed that he was indeed alive.

" _Beautiful sound, isn't it?"_ the Machine asked. _"We came so close to losing him, Sam. He's not in the clear yet, but I know you'll be able to pull him through."_

 _No pressure there…_ Sameen shifted her attention to John's breathing. Most of what she heard was from the ventilator, but his lungs still sounded clear. "So," she began as she pulled the stethoscope from her ears. "Tell me what happened."

Steve sank into the chair beside the bed, both relieved and anxious to finally have someone to tell his story to. "I don't know where to begin."

"Well, I have a pretty good idea of how things look now, so how about starting at the beginning?"

Unable to decide if she was being sarcastic or not, Steve ignored the comment and began to talk. "I was in town for a trauma medicine conference – which unbeknownst to me and apparently my supervisor – had actually been the previous weekend and my plans had been…wait, I'm getting ahead of myself…I was taking a cab from the airport to the hotel when we got stuck in a traffic jam and…"

As she listened, Sameen looked over John's injuries. The Machine hadn't been kidding when it said Samaritan's men had done a number on him; even through the bandages she could tell the damage was extensive.

 _Looks like they didn't even try for a kill shot…_ she thought, and then recalled Samaritan had largely recruited its grunts based on mental malleability rather than their tactical skills. _I'm surprised they didn't opt for a sniper…Finch said that seemed to be Samaritan's preferred method when they wanted someone eliminated…Elias, Dominic, Root…They must have been confident the missile would take him down if the gunmen failed…but still…How'd you do it, Reese? I know you're good, but no one is_ that _good…_

"…Were pulling .22's and 9mm's from the…"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute, back up," she said, interrupting him when she realized what he was saying. "I thought you said the gunmen used assault rifles?"

"That's what Gus told me."

"But didn't you just say you pulled small caliber slugs from the wounds?"

"Except for the one that shattered his femur, yes."

"But assault rifles don't shoot that type of round. The cartridge size is completely different and the…"

Steve held up his hands. "Hey, you don't have to convince me; I'm just as confused by this as you. When I first saw John's injuries I thought they'd been caused by a small caliber weapon until Gus showed me one of the spent casings he'd taken off the roof. Now I'm no firearms expert, but there's no mistaking a casing from a handgun with one from an assault rifle and according to Gus, if those gunmen had had the correct type of ammo, John would have been shredded." As he spoke, he retrieved a small bottle from the bedside table and held it out for her to take.

"What's that?"

"What we've taken out of him so far."

She took the bottle and opened it. Inside was an assortment of small slugs, many distorted from their impact with bone. She gave the bottle a quick shake, bringing a single larger slug to the surface. Like the smaller ones, it was badly deformed, but it was also more along the lines of what she considered to be automatic rifle ammunition.

"He still has a dozen or so left inside that need to come out at some point, but I won't risk taking him back into surgery until his anemia is under control."

Sameen was shaking her head. She believed him; she just didn't understand how something like this could happen. _I suppose such ammo could be made, but we're talking about Samaritan here…_ "Why would they do such a thing?"

"Why would who do what?"

She looked up, unaware that she'd spoken aloud. "Um…it's complicated."

" _It's also one of the things you and I need to discuss…"_ the Machine said.

Steve rolled his eyes. "Here we go with the cryptic crap…"

"Believe me, as soon as I know what's going on, I'll tell you everything I can," she said, closing the bottle and passing it back. "So you were pulling slugs out of Reese…then what?"

He gave her a dubious look. The woman had about as much tact as a cold bedpan, but he'd dealt with similar – and worse – personalities in the past. "We hadn't had John on the table long when he crashed – hard. His heart stopped; I had my reservations about trying to resuscitate him, but Dr. Gowan and his team reacted…"

As Steve continued with his story, Sameen resumed her assessment of John. Learning of his second, more serious crash, she found herself glancing more frequently at the cardiac monitor. As normal as his rhythm appeared, she knew his heart could still have been damaged by the period of asystole. Only time and careful monitoring would tell, especially when his heart came under stress.

"…Last few days we've been watching him closely, fine tuning his medications, and crossing our fingers," Steve concluded several minutes later. With his convoluted tale recounted, he braced himself for her to laugh, scoff, or call him crazy.

"Sounds like you've had your hands full the last couple of weeks."

"It's been a challenge," he admitted, surprised by the sincerity of her response. "But as crazy as it's been, it beats the hell out of public speaking."

Sameen smirked.

"So…how's he looking to you?"

"For him – terrible," she replied. "But for someone who's been through what he has, he looks pretty damn good."

"Any suggestions or concerns?"

"One. His right leg…"

"Feels colder than his left, I know. I can show you his x-rays later, but it's been an ongoing concern of ours too. We had to wait nearly a week for him to stabilize enough to be taken back into surgery. By then the bones had already begun to knit and several of the breaks needed to be rebroken. Luckily Egret's Haven has a skilled orthopedic surgeon on their team and he was able to help realign and pin the bones.

"With so many open wounds, none of the fractures could be stabilized with a traditional cast. The rigid splints allow for frequent bandage changes and let us to monitor for infection. The specialist recommended keeping his right arm and leg in traction to better the chances of the bones, muscles and tendons healing properly. So far his arm is showing signs of improvement, but his leg…" Steve shook his head. "The injury was so severe, we questioned at first if it was even worth trying to save it. His femur was shattered, the major vessels punctured, and the surrounding muscles were full of bullet and bone fragments. Our main concerns became circulation and nerve damage. We had repaired the vessels during his initial surgery and the specialist made some adjustments, but there wasn't much more he could do to improve John's circulation beyond what it was at that point."

"And assessing nerve function will be difficult until he wakes up."

Steve nodded. "His leg has some circulation, but as you can tell by the temperature difference between the two limbs, it's not normal. The wounds on his thigh are healing poorly and that's a big indicator of inadequate blood flow."

"It could be the splint, the traction, or swelling," Sameen offered. "Or just a combination of everything all at once."

"It's possible," he agreed. "We've started using low level laser therapyto see if that will help stimulate healing, but if that doesn't work or an infection develops, John may lose his leg."

Sameen briefly closed her eyes. She knew for someone like John, the loss of a limb would be worse than death. _If Reese loses his leg…then we'll lose him for sure…_

" _Don't let this drag you down, sweetie,"_ the Machine said. _"The big lug is going to need all the support he can get if he's going to make it through this."_

"Let's hope it doesn't have to come to that," she said, not wanting to think about the choices they would have to make if it did. "Have you tried backing off on sedation yet?"

Steve shook his head. "His injuries were so severe that it necessitated keeping him chemically paralyzed. Even once we had him stabilized, we decided it was best to leave him under to allow him time to heal and act as pain relief."

"Yeah, I don't think his usual aspirin and whiskey chaser is going to cut it this time."

"We've also been hesitant to take him off the ventilator. Both his lungs took damage – especially the right one – which was shot through and had collapsed. He didn't lose any of it during surgery, but like his leg, it's something we've been monitoring closely. We just took the chest tube out a few days ago when it finally stopped draining," he explained. "He's scheduled to be seen by the resident pulmonologist tomorrow for a bronchoscopy. If everything looks good, we'll start to ease up on the meds and begin weaning him off the ventilator."

"When you do wake him up, it'll have to be done slowly," Sameen warned. "The last thing he's likely going to remember is being in a shootout with some rather nasty guys on top of that roof. It won't be good for any of us if Reese wakes up thinking he needs to fight."

"He didn't expect to survive."

"What?" she asked, the sudden shift in subject catching her off guard.

"That's what Gus said – John didn't expect to survive the confrontation. He said he went up there armed with a handgun, no body armor, and no backup."

"I think Reese has been prepared to die for a long time," she replied. "Both for the right and wrong reasons. He went up on that roof knowing it was a one-way trip to do a job in place of someone else. Someone whose life he values more than his own."

"He sounds loyal."

"To a fault." She sighed heavily and put her hand on John's shoulder. He was oblivious to her presence and she was still in awe by his.

"You okay?" Steve asked, sensing she was troubled by something.

"Less than twenty-four hours ago, I thought he was dead. It's great to find him alive, but comprehending it all…it's going to take a while for it to really sink in."

"That's understandable. I felt much the same way when this all started. Still do, in fact. Looking back over the last couple of weeks, things almost seem surreal."

"Plus it's been a very long day," she added, noting the time displayed on the wall clock and recalling the early hour at which she had been so rudely woken.

"If you were coming from the city, I imagine it has. We do have a room available for you – it was prepared under the premise that you'd be staying to help with John's care. I can show it to you if you'd like – if it's your intent to stay, that is…"

"Oh, I'm staying," she replied, knowing they were going to need all the help they could get wrangling John when he awoke. Even if his shattered leg healed well, getting the stubborn, moody man back on his feet was going to be a challenge not for the faint of heart.

Although she had no desire to leave his side so soon, she knew some time alone to think and get things straight in her head would be a wise move. _Besides…I don't think Reese is going anywhere for a while…_ "Is it far?" she asked. "The room far?"

"Not at all – it's right around the corner and across the hall from where I've been staying the nights John's been stable enough to leave him in the hands of the nursing staff. The structure here is very different from a modern facility and allows for a more personal, patient focused approach."

Normally such a warm, fuzzy style would make her skin crawl, but at the moment, the option to remain close was ideal. "I think a few minutes alone to process everything would…oh, crap…"

"What?"

"I didn't actually come alone."

Steve raised his eyebrows. "Who came with you?"

"My dog – he's out in the car. He's well-trained and friendly, but I didn't realize I would be walking into an ICU when I brought him along this morning," Sameen replied, more for the Machine's benefit than Steve's. "Even though he'd be beside himself to see Reese right about now…"

"Wait - is it Bear?"

"You know Bear?"

"Yeah – but I thought he was John and Harold's dog?"

"He's a hand-me-down, what can I say?"

"He's a great guy. We had our moments at first, but then we bonded over stupid dog tricks and meatballs."

"Meatballs? Nice."

Steve shrugged. "That's a story for another time. Bear is welcome here – he'll just need frequent baths with anti-microbial shampoo and his visits will have to be supervised until John's fully aware of his surroundings."

"Animals allowed in an intensive care ward – that's different."

"Another perk of Egret's Haven. Their unconventional approach yields faster recoveries and better outcomes than we see from traditional settings. I've had time to do some reading on the work they do here and it's pretty impressive."

She nodded. At the moment, she could care less about the achievements of this "under the radar" medical facility. She stripped off her gloves and tossed them in the trash under the sink.

"Once you're settled, I'd like to hook you up with John's file so you can get a better idea of what his care has been like thus far." Steve gestured toward the exit. "Shall we?"

Collecting her jacket on the way by, she followed him to the door. "Maybe later I can give you a tour of the place and then swing by the kitchen for a bite to eat. I've been given permission to scrounge leftovers as long as I don't leave a mess."

"Oh, I don't know about…"

" _Take the offer, Sam,"_ the Machine urged. _"The man's a gourmet chef in doctor's clothing."_

"We'll see, all right?" she said, willing to concede but not commit.

Steve smiled. "Fair enough. Come on, your room is this way."

Sameen made to follow, then paused to look back at John. It still didn't seem real, surreal maybe, but not _real_ real. _I still don't know how you did it…but something tells me you're going to be just as confused as I am…I'll be back, John…_ she thought, turning to leave. _And maybe we can figure this out together…_


	8. Chapter 8

It was late. The ICU at Egret's Haven was deep in night mode, the soft glow of the minimal lighting in stark contrast to the harsher ones reserved for during the day. A nurse occupied the round workstation at the center of the unit, her face illuminated by the pair of computer monitors before her. She worked alone, but a crash team could be assembled in less than a minute if the ward's solitary patient took a turn for the worst.

Except for a single small lamp beside the bed, the room was dark. More light wouldn't disturb John at this point, but it was how Sameen wanted it. She was seated in the sleeper chair with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around her legs. She was aware that it turned into a bed, but she was neither in the mood for lying down or sleeping. She had already spent an hour tossing and turning on the bed in her temporary quarters, opting to get up when Bear started protesting her restlessness with impatient sighs. She'd wandered the largely deserted halls for a while before coming to sit with John.

After Steve had shown her to her quarters – a small room with a bed, desk, TV, and attached bathroom – she had taken half an hour for herself. She'd simply laid on the bed in the dark, stared at the ceiling, and listened to the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Even the Machine had remained silent, likely sensing her desire to be alone. She'd spent the time trying to sort through the tangle of feelings that came with learning someone you thought was dead really wasn't, and the possibility that they may not emerge the same person you knew before.

When the soft knock at her door came thirty minutes later, Sameen emerged with a somewhat clearer head. Although no less confused, her anger about having been kept in the dark about John's fate had largely diminished. Steve had given her a quick tour of the facility, ending at the kitchen. In front of a large, well-stocked refrigerator, he'd asked what she wanted for dinner. For the second time that day, she'd found herself without an appetite and left the decision up to him.

Leaving Steve in the kitchen, she'd gone out to the car to get Bear. After letting the dog run free for a while, she had taken him inside, using the stairwell to avoid passing directly through the ICU. In her absence, the items needed for Bear's mandatory bath had appeared and she decided to use the remaining time before dinner to do it.

Bathing the Malinois was never easy and tonight had proven to be no different. The whining began the moment he figured out what was coming and she'd had to half carry, half drag him into the bathroom. He sulked the entire time, snorting and sneezing at the strong scent of the disinfectant soap. After drying him with a hair dryer she found under the sink, Sameen had taken a shower herself and changed into a pair of dark blue scrubs.

The Machine hadn't been joking when it told her Steve was a gourmet chef. Dinner, which consisted of steak tips in a mushroom sauce over pasta, garlic bread, and a salad, turned out to be the best thing she'd eaten in a long time. While they ate, he told her how he'd come to know John, Harold, and Bear. She'd cringed when he mentioned wanting to look up Joss Carter, and relayed the news of her death as tactfully as she could. He'd clearly been shaken, but handled it well. Given his profession, he was used to loss; he'd deal with any emotional fallout later when he was alone.

Sameen had offered to help clean up when the meal was finished. They'd worked mostly in companionable silence; Steve had been lost in thought, either about John, the loss of Joss, or both. With the kitchen back in order, they'd gone to check on their patient a final time before retiring to their separate rooms. After trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep, she'd relinquished the bed to Bear and gone to sit with her partner.

" _Now aren't you glad you came?"_ the Machine asked.

"You should have just told me John was here," Sameen replied, speaking quietly to avoid being overheard by the duty nurse. "I would have come."

 _"I thought the ambiguity of a surprise would add some excitement to your life. You have fallen into a bit of a rut as of late."_

"The 'rut' you're referring to is also called a 'routine' and believe me, I could do with a little _less_ excitement in my life." She looked over at John. Even in the low light, his unnatural pallor was still easily seen. "So how'd you do it? How'd you get him out of a situation that even you said was a one way trip?"

 _"Lots of planning and even more luck. The only sure thing we had going into this was John."_

"The agreement he made with you – for him to take the fall instead of Finch."

 _"We made it years ago shortly after Root made contact with Harold for the first time."_

"'Made contact with?' Don't you mean abducted?"

 _"That's such an ugly word – it denotes the intent to harm and she meant no such…"_

"Anyway…"

 _"John has always wanted to repay Harry for giving him a second chance, even if it meant sacrificing himself to do it."_ The Machine paused. _"It takes a special person to do what he did."_

"Yeah," Sameen agreed with a nod. "Reese is special all right…"

 _"Anyone can say they'd give their life to save another, but it takes an exceptional person – a real man – to do what John did that day."_

She rolled her eyes. "Please. Next you'll be calling him a romantic."

 _"Mmm, I prefer 'chivalrous'…"_

"Right. So how'd the Dark Knight rise out of the ashes?"

 _"There's so much to tell. Where would you like me to start?"_

"The ammo."

 _"I should have known. Do you still have the package that was in the mailbox with the chip for your ID badge?"_

Sameen reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, oddly shaped package wrapped in plain brown paper. "Yep."

 _"Open it."_

She slit the tape holding the paper together with her fingernail. Inside were three finger length tapered brass cartridges with pointed copper tips. "Five-five-six NATO rounds," she said. "Rifle ammo. I have a ton of these in my dishwasher."

 _"Not quite. Look closer."_

By all appearances, they were identical to the same high quality performance ammo she preferred to use. She turned it over to look at the stamp on the bottom. "'2 Sam's Armory' – really?"

 _"It was Root's idea. She never gave up hope of finding you and John was right there with her along the way."_

"All right, so you personalized some bullets – that still doesn't explain the small caliber rounds they dug out of Reese."

 _"Look again – remember, sometimes the smallest details provide the biggest clues."_

She looked back down at the cartridges and again saw nothing unusual. "This would go so much faster if you'd just tell me what I'm looking for instead of playing these stupid…"

 _"You're a bright woman. Why don't you try shining a little light on the situation?"_

Sameen wasn't sure what bothered her more: the ridiculous riddles or the hint of amusement in the Machine's voice. She leaned over and studied them under the bedside lamp. She saw nothing at first, but as her eyes adjusted, she could just make out tiny tool marks where the bullet was joined to the casing on two of the three cartridges **.** "These have been reloaded."

 _"As smart as she is deadly. Way to go, Sam."_

She shook her head. "I still don't…"

 _"Not long after my systems were fully restored from being compressed, I came across an encrypted ammunition contract that Samaritan had put out for bid."_

"What did they want?"

 _"Three hundred thousand rounds delivered as quickly and cheaply as possible. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up, so Root and I went into the ammunition business. We relayed our offer through a proxy server to appear as though we were coming from an unspecified location in South America. It was immediately accepted with the contingency that we provided them with a sample and they were satisfied with the product."_

"I take it you didn't send them the duds?" Sameen asked, still scrutinizing the cartridges under the light.

 _"No. We sent them the highest quality rounds available, and needless to say, we got the contract. The deal was to ship the order in four installments of seventy-five thousand rounds each over several weeks to reduce suspicion at the boarder. As far as Samaritan was concerned, the ammo was being made on foreign soil when it was really coming from a small armory in northern Maine."_

"You outsourced?"

 _"Of course. The armory was more than willing to do as we asked once they saw how generously they were going to be compensated. We got them the supplies and a few days later, the first shipment was ready to go. Samaritan received what they thought was seventy-five thousand rounds of high performance rifle ammunition, when what they really got was a 50/40/10 mix. Fifty percent wax filled blanks, forty percent small caliber reloads, and ten percent NATO rounds. The quality of the work was impressive as you can see by the samples you're holding."_

"Sounds like an extreme version of Russian Roulette. All it would have taken is one lucky shot with the right type of round in the chamber."

 _"It was the best way to tip the odds in John's favor if there was a firefight,"_ the Machine replied. _"And it appears Lady Luck was on his side that day."_

 _If you can call this luck…_ Sameen thought, looking over at her stricken partner. "Samaritan obviously never used the ammo until that day or they would have known you snowballed them. Did they get all three hundred thousand rounds?"

 _"Fortunately, no, only half, but we got away with all the money."_

"Sweet." She looked down at the cartridges again, still amazed by how authentic they all appeared. Except for the tool marks – which were so insignificant they could only been seen under close scrutiny – there were no discernable differences between them. The blanks explained the large number of casing the tactical officer saw on the roof, the reloads were the reason for the small caliber slugs, and for John to have only been struck with three rifle rounds… _Maybe Lady Luck was on Reese's side…_

"What about the missile?" she asked.

 _"It's a critical detail we nearly missed. In fact, if it hadn't been for Root's intuition, we would've lost our chance to interfere. For as brazen as Samaritan usually was, they demonstrated their ability to be crafty on this one."_

"Evil Step Sister almost pulled one over on you, did she?" Sameen asked. "What happened to the all knowing super computer?"

 _"There was so much going on at the time, it became necessary to set priorities and filter out what seemed extraneous. The Navy was hacked. When they went public with the story, it was touted as being the work of amateurs."_

"And you believed them?"

The Machine actually sighed. " _The actions of the perpetrators didn't fall under the imminent threat criteria of my programming, so no alert was triggered. Government sites are hacked more often than the feds are willing to admit. Their internal IT teams are good, but there's always someone out there that's better."_

"So what were these so called "amateurs" looking for?"

 _"Personnel files. They'd accessed about ten thousand before they were caught and shut out. The IP address was traced to an apartment complex just outside of Vancouver, BC. They found the laptop that was used, but it over clocked and cooked itself before the agents could recover anything useful."_

"Convenient. The files they grabbed, were they random?"

 _"That's what the official report said. The internal investigators may not have made the connection, but Root did. She looked into the three hundred or so files that were actually lifted by the hackers – they all belonged to officers classified as missile technicians."_

Sameen's eyebrows rose. "Sounds like Samaritan was looking for someone on the inside they could buy. Or coerce."

 _"Most likely the latter. Pretty good for a backup plan, really."_

"Wait – what?"

 _"In light of Root's discovery, I decided to launch a little investigation of my own. It turns out Samaritan hacked the Navy through the front and back doors simultaneously."_

"Um…"

 _"The file phishing was a way to get names, but it also served as a distraction. While the IT squids were busy running damage control, Samaritan was searching out launch codes for destroyers stationed within a thousand kilometers of the city."_

"If Samaritan had to use a distraction to do their dirty work, how did you get in?"

 _"Every worm leaves a trail,"_ the Machine replied. _"I simply followed in her footsteps."_

"So that's how you got the codes."

 _"No. I didn't penetrate the Navy's system deep enough to do that."_

"Okay, this conversation is getting a little awkward…"

 _"Once I knew what they'd accessed, I pulled back. If I'd gone after the codes, I would have run the risk of being caught by the Navy or, more likely, Samaritan herself. No, we had to go around the world to get our codes – Plateliai, Lithuania to be exact."_

"What – the local Black Market was out of stock?"

 _"I didn't want Black Market codes; I wanted legitimate ones. And to get them, we had to go where Samaritan wasn't."_

"Lithuania, though. Seriously?"

 _"Actually, the opportunity presented itself. The son of a prominent Lithuanian man became the target of an assassination attempt and Root just happened to stop it."_

"Of course she was."

 _"Vasily was so enamored, he wanted to repay her for saving his life. At my prompting, they exchanged numbers and when Root called in her favor, he was more than willing to oblige. Once in Lithuania and away from Samaritan's prying eyes, we were able to access the Navy's system with little threat of detection. So, Vasily got to thank his ballerina, and we got our codes."_

"Ballerina? What are you…wait, never mind, I don't want to know," Sameen said with a sigh. "All right, so you got the codes, why didn't you stop the missile from launching?"

 _"Launch codes are carrier specific. There was no way of knowing which destroyer Samaritan was going to launch from or what the target would be until the missile was in the air. By then she had changed the codes – even the Navy couldn't call it back. Besides, aborting was never my intent. In order to give John the best chance, I couldn't tip my hand too soon. Any changes I made had to be done after the missile had passed the fail safe point to prevent Samaritan from countering them."_

"Then what was the point of stealing the launch codes if you didn't intended to use them?"

" _Samaritan sought to control the missile's body, while I sought to control its mind. I took the launch codes, but I also acquired the commands that would allow me to alter the missile's performance even after it had left the ship. One of the last acts I did before the ICE-9 virus took hold was to reprogram the missile to detonate at less than half its rated capacity. The impact was still lethal to anyone directly in its path, but for those who were beyond its blast radius at least had a chance of getting out alive. The two men that pulled John off the building were instructed to be no higher than the eighth floor when missile hit for this reason."_

"That's another thing - how'd you coordinate the people involved in the rescue?"

 _"Recruiting the medics and the extraction team was fairly simple. Many were former military, so I only needed to appeal to their solidarity. Once they heard one of their own was in trouble, they where more than willing to offer their assistance. Those that were more reluctant I sent Numbers to. When they saw the texts they were receiving were legitimate, they immediately came on board. All were put on stand-by, waiting for the text that would tell them where and when._

 _"Egret's Haven and their affiliates are always available to see patients. While their focus is research, they can rapidly assemble a trauma response team when the need arises. They'll see anyone in an emergency, but only their sponsors are treated and rehabilitated onsite; all others are referred out once they're stable enough to travel. They've adopted a "don't ask, don't tell" policy and respect the privacy of their members."_

"I seriously doubt Reese is a "member" of this ER equivalent of a country club."

 _"No, but Harold is. In fact, he's largely responsible for what Egret's Haven is today, but that's a tale best left for him to tell if he so chooses._

 _"Steve Maxwell was an easy choice. He'd helped John before and didn't back down when Mr. Dark and Stormy bared his fangs. The problem was finding a legitimate reason for getting him here and a nearby trauma convention gave us just the excuse we were looking for."_

"Maxwell mentioned the convention. He said he missed it by a week."

 _"He did – and it was my doing. We knew Samaritan was getting close to making her move by the large increase of agents that were cropping up around the city. There was just no way to know for certain when and where the final showdown would be. As the opening day for the convention drew near, there was little activity to suggest a fight was imminent. My guess is that they were still licking their wounds from your masterfully executed escape."_

Sameen rolled her eyes at the Machine's flawless imitation of Root's adoring tone.

 _"To buy some time, I sent Steve's supervisor a postponement letter, new plane tickets, and upgraded hotel reservations to make up for the inconvenience. I also made sure any attempts to verify the change in the convention schedule would coincide with the letter they received. As the new date approached and there was still no activity from Samaritan, we started to realize we may lose the opportunity to have Steve nearby and I began looking to recruit an alternate physician._

 _"Fortunately we didn't have resort to such drastic measures. Shortly after Harry obtained the ICE-9 virus, things with Samaritan began to rapidly progress. Root's death finally made him realize just how high the stakes had become and low Samaritan was willing to go to win. The evening before he went to release the virus, I put the team of individuals I'd recruited on standby, and Steve boarded a red-eye flight bound for LaGuardia._

 _"The plane touched down shortly before the compressed version of Samaritan escaped. By the time he collected his luggage and hailed a cab, we knew where it and the missile were headed – a mid-town high rise with a Torus antenna installed on the roof. I directed the rescue team to key locations around the targeted building and used traffic signals to guide the cab into the area._

 _"Unbeknownst to Harold, John had taken the last copy of the virus and gone to the high rise in his place. He knew it was a one-way trip, but he never hesitated. His loyalty to Harry was unshakable. I know society views machines as cold and emotionless, but I've learned so much from watching and interacting with you all. To hear them say goodbye was…"_

Sameen abruptly cleared her throat. "Don't say it, okay?" she said, her voice wavering. Even though John was alive and literally lying inches away, the emotions she'd felt back at her apartment came swarming back. "I get it. Reese is a hero."

" _I stayed with him as long as I could, but my core systems were rapidly failing at that point. He held Samaritan's agents off long enough for the virus to be transmitted, taking random bullets as waves of new gunmen replaced the ones he'd felled. When I finally faded, John was still on his feet, but I knew he wouldn't be for long. He'd already taken a lot of hits and there were more agents on the way. I had no way of knowing if the work Root and I had done in the weeks prior did any good – until I came back online, that is._

 _"As I mentioned before, Root programmed my systems to come back slowly. One of my first tasks after the basic startup was complete was to access the security system at a place called 'Egret's Haven' and look for two individuals: John Reese and Steve Maxwell. I had names and a photo – there was no further information on either of them. I was told they were important and if I found them there, I was instructed to observe. Over the course of the next week my memory was gradually restored, and I leaned who they were, their significance, and what had brought them together."_

"Then you waited another week before telling me."

 _"I didn't want to upset…"_

"I get your reasoning, but I still don't like it," Sameen muttered. She sat forward in the sleeper chair and rested her forearms on the safety rail of John's bed. "He had a chance – why didn't you tell him? Or anyone for that matter?"

" _I didn't want it to be a distraction,"_ the Machine replied. _"I knew it wouldn't be for John, but Harold would have fretted. He needed to be unaware of John's plans until the last minute or else he would have interfered. He wanted so desperately for his friends to live…"_

"That's kind of a lame reason…"

 _"And not my only one for withholding the information. With so many variables and the uncertainly of the timing, John's actual chance of survival was slim. Root and I both knew this going in, but after running tireless simulations, the best chance we could give him was less than half a percent. Just as I wanted to protect you from finding him alive only to lose him again, I didn't want anyone on the team to anticipate his survival and then watch him die. We were all still reeling from the loss of Root; I didn't want to add more grief with false hope."_

She sighed deeply. The Machine had been right – John's rescue and survival thus far had been the result of planning coupled with copious amounts luck. If just one element had changed – even a little – things may have ended drastically different. "The grave," she said quietly.

 _"What about it?"_

"You sent me and Fusco a picture of John's headstone at Arlington. I realize there wouldn't have been anything left to bury after the missile hit, but…"

 _"I notified the appropriate officials of John's death when he began his assent up the high rise to transmit the virus. His chances were so small, and a grave – even if empty – can give closure. Since the CIA already had John Reese listed as KIA, I submitted his birth identity for the epitaph. So, as far as the world is concerned, John is dead. In that sense, he's a free man and can continue with Reese as his surname or choose a new one if he so desires."_

"Damn…" Sameen uttered, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. "You can't make this stuff up."

" _I told you there was a lot to tell,"_ the Machine said in a sympathetic tone. _"Have I answered all your questions?"_

"All but one…where do we go from here?"

 _"That's largely up to you, Sameen. I brought you here to help John through his recovery, but I can't make you stay if you don't want to. It's going to be difficult for him and those closely involved, which is one of the reasons I chose you. His injuries are severe and have the potential to cause lasting impairment. Egret's Haven has the resources to maximize his recovery, he just has to be convinced to use them."_

"He's got to wake up first. And his leg…"

 _"Try not to get caught up in could happen and focus on what does. Lady Luck has been in his corner so far, hopefully she'll stick around a little longer to help see him through."_

Sameen reached out and put her hand against John's heavily bandaged shoulder. Although she was fully capable of taking care of herself, he'd become a reliable source of strength in difficult situations. Despite their frequent disagreements, he'd always had her back in the field. Now it was her turn to repay his loyalty, even though she knew it would be no easy task.

Sighing, she sat back in the chair and sank into the moderately soft cushion. Now that she had a better understanding of how John survived, she felt herself actually beginning to relax. Smothering a yawn with the back of her hand, she rested her head on the back of the chair and looked up at the ceiling.

 _"Getting tired, Sweetie?"_

"A little."

 _"It's understandable. You've had a long day between the hours behind the wheel and everything you've been told and seen – it's a lot to process."_

"Yeah."

 _"Why don't you try to get a few hours of sleep before Steve comes looking for you? He's eager to go over John's treatment thus far in more detail and makes plans for the future. And who knows? Maybe he'll make you breakfast."_

 _A man that can cook…_ Sameen thought with a sly grin. _That's about all they're good for…_ She lifted her head and looked over at John. She was confident by now that she wasn't dreaming, but she still desired the visual reassurance. "I'm not that tired," she replied, resting her head back once more.

She closed her eyes, intent on just resting them for a few minutes, and drifted off almost immediately. So relieved was her mind that she slept more soundly than she had in a very long time. She never heard the night nurse come into check on John, nor did she feel the blanket that was spread over her.

From somewhere deep within her subconscious, a thought came to the surface and she smiled. While she knew life could never go back to how it had been before Samaritan, having John back in the picture made the future not seem so bleak. Getting the ex-op back on his feet was going to be a challenge, and after the events as of late, one she wholeheartedly welcomed.

 _Bring it on, tough guy…I can handle you…the real question is…can you handle me…?_


	9. Chapter 9

For anyone walking by the temporary living quarters beside the ICU, the muffled sounds coming from one of the rooms would have been disturbing. The frantic whines, gruff commands, and the occasional thump of furniture made it sound like there was a domestic assault in progress – and a messy one that at. The few that did pass didn't stop to see if the room's occupants were all right or even put a call in to security. They all knew by now what was going on behind the closed door, and that it was best to not to interfere.

"Bear! Knock it off!" Sameen growled at the large dog she had pinned between her knees. It was an awkward position for both of them, but she needed her hands free and he refused to stand still. "Do I have to sit on you?"

He whimpered and tried to pull away, but the shower wall kept him from going forward and her knees kept him from going back. He stubbornly resisted when she tried to pick up his left hind foot, relenting only when she grabbed him by the hock and squeezed.

"I don't see what the problem is," she muttered, grasping his paw in one hand while reaching for the bottle of soap with the other. "You had no trouble laying down in that mud puddle."

Bear whined in protest as she coated his foot with the antiseptic soap and began to briskly scrub it. She knew the dog didn't understand what was going on. For the last three days, his world had been turned upside down. Between the numerous baths, spending hours alone in cramped quarters, and occasionally being walked by strangers, she was surprised he hadn't begun to vent his frustrations destructively. _Unless you count the three towels and a pillow he shredded yesterday…_

They had yet to let him see John. The man's recovery had taken a step back when he developed a fever within hours of his appointment with the pulmonologist. Their initial thought was that it was a stress reaction to the procedure, but a full evaluation revealed something far more worrisome. Several of his gunshot wounds had begun to show signs of infection. They'd responded aggressively, combining debridement with antibiotics – both intravenous and packed directly into the wounds. After a few days of treatment and undisturbed rest, he seemed to be back on track.

"Quit wiggling, Fuzz for Brains, or you'll get a cold water rinse this time." Satisfied his foot was clean, she released it and reached for the other one. _Giving Reese a few extra days of rest probably wasn't a bad idea…_ she thought, scowling as she scraped what she sincerely hoped was mud from between the dog's toes. She knew John's intense personality was going to make the recovery process difficult on everyone, but for him, it was going to be downright grueling. Always willing to help someone in need, he seemed incapable of asking for it for himself and was slow to accept when it was offered.

 _They say doctors make the worst patients…I think a particular ex-CIA operative with little regard for his own life just may challenge that…_

She'd been in the room with Steve while the pulmonologist was examining John. The bronchoscopy had revealed the man's lungs were healing, just not as quickly as they had hoped. His right lung was heavily scarred where the bullet had punched through. Most of the stitches that were put in during surgery had already dissolved, but there was still a noticeable amount of inflammation around the wounds. To help encourage healing, the specialist had removed the remaining stitches and flushed John's lungs with warm saline. He'd seen nothing wrong with waking the man up, but recommended he remain on the ventilator until they were certain he could consistently maintain his oxygen levels on his own.

 _Specialists…_ Sameen scoffed to herself. _How many extra years of school did he need to make a call like_ that _? What did he think we were going to do – just yank the tube and hope for the best…?_ She'd come close to sharing her sentiments with the specialist personally, but a sharp word from the Machine prompted her to keep her mouth shut. _I hope all of the specialists here aren't so ignorant…_

Finished with Bear's back feet, she maneuvered around within the narrow confines of the shower stall to work on his front ones. As she grasped his right leg, the dog turned his head, lifted his lips, and growled. She was surprised, but not as much as he was when she roughly clamped her hand around his muzzle. "Do that again, and I swear to God you'll be needing a liquid diet for the rest of your life." She held his mouth shut for a moment before releasing it. He sneezed sharply in protest, but offered no resistance when she reached for his foot and began to scrub.

" _He's good practice for dealing with John,"_ the Machine said, clearly amused.

"Somehow I don't think he's going to give up so easily."

 _"You're probably right. Plus I can see how giving him a belly rub to reward good behavior could have disastrous consequences."_

"Now there's a mental picture I didn't need." After she finished with Bear's paws, she quickly ran her hands through his soapy coat to make sure she hadn't missed any pockets of grit. Finding none, she reached fore the sprayer and began to rinse him off. "I know this sucks, but there's a surprise waiting that will make all these baths worth it."

The plan was two-fold: Bear would be reunited with John, and the dog's presence would hopefully help keep the man calm during his return to consciousness. Steve had begun slowly tapering off the drugs that had kept him comatose for the last two and half weeks earlier that day. They weren't looking for him to wake up completely, only enough for him to know what happened and where he was. He would likely remain moderately sedated for several weeks to help with pain control and to keep him quiet while his body continued to heal. They also didn't want him fighting the respirator, which would stay in place until he demonstrated he could breathe adequately on his own.

"Done," Sameen said, turning off the sprayer. Bear merely stood there, the epitome of pitiful, his head down, dripping, shivering, and refusing to meet her eyes. "You realize there are neutered dogs with bigger balls than you, right?" She rolled her eyes and hung the sprayer on its hook. "Just don't shake off until I'm out of the…"

She had no sooner lifted her leg to step over him when Bear gave a mighty shake, showering her in a fine spray of water.

The Machine laughed in her ear. _"Always has to have the last word, doesn't he?"_ it asked.

Grumbling about lack of respect under her breath, Sameen grabbed a towel and used it to dry her face before going after the dog. This part was a game for him, and she could feel him mouthing her arm through the thick material. She resisted at first, but finally gave into his playfulness and roughed him up as she dried him off. "You're damn lucky I like you…"

Several towels and a few bruises later, she switched to the hairdryer to finish the job. When Bear's coat was dry, she put o his collar and dismissed him with a clap on the rump. Not needing to be told twice, he sprinted out of the room, launched onto the bed, and began to roll emphatically in the sheets. Sameen stood in the doorway and watched, thinking how much easier life would be if humans could be as carefree as dogs.

When Bear finally settled down a few minutes later, he was lying on his back and peering at her with one eye from within the tousled sheets. "Cute, but not bright," Sameen uttered, shaking her head. She turned on the TV and tossed the remote on the bed. "Here - entertain yourself while I wash off your stink."

She showered quickly, wanting to be present when John began to wake. The hope was for things to go smoothly, but there would be drugs close by to put him under again if he panicked or tried to fight. Keeping his right arm and leg immobilized at this point was crucial; the traction supports and splints would do the job, but they wouldn't hold like restraints if he tried to pull against them.

When she emerged from the shower a few minutes later, Bear was lying normally and gazing up at the TV, totally captivated by the brightly colored creatures that were frolicking across the screen. "A kids' show? Really?" She reached for the remote, but the dog stopped her with his paw.

 _"He seems to like it,"_ the Machine replied.

Sameen waved her hand between the dog's line of sight and the screen – he didn't even blink. "A little too much, don't you think?"

 _"It's late morning on a weekday, Sam. It was either this, a soap opera, or a "who's the daddy?" talk show. I figured at least this way, he might learn something._ "

"I doubt it – I can see his already limited IQ starting to drop." She ducked back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed. When she returned to find the dog still entranced and now drooling, she snatched the remote and turned it off. "No wonder kids nowadays are so numb…"

She retrieved Bear's leash from the desk. "You ready to go see what all the fuss has been about?" The dog looked over her shoulder to the blank TV screen and whined. "Nope – TV time's over. Believe me, when you see who's at the other end of the hall, you're going to forget all about those oversized squeaky toys." She fastened his collar. "Let's go."

The dog obediently followed the tug on his leash, but didn't step up beside her in his normally exuberant pace. When they met Steve about halfway to John's room, Bear greeted him with a halfhearted wag of his tail.

"That's all I get?" the doctor said, kneeling down to give him a scratch. He'd reacquainted himself with the dog the day before. Bear had clearly recognized the man and warmly welcomed both him and the plate of meatballs he'd brought.

"His coat is girly soft, he smells like a vet's office, and I just revoked his TV privileges," Sameen explained. "At the moment, he has nothing to live for."

"Well I think we should change that, don't you?"

"The big guy showing signs of waking up yet?"

Steve shook his head. "No, but it shouldn't be long now. His heart rate has been increasing gradually over the last hour and that's usually a good indicator that someone is coming out of sedation. We're just going to take is slow and see how things go."

They began to walk down the hall toward the ICU. "You going to be able to hold him if he gets excited?" Steve asked.

" _I wonder if he's talking about Bear or John…?"_

Sameen smirked at the Machine's question. "Yeah, he's never done anything I couldn't handle before," she said, referring to both man and beast.

As they neared John's room, she choked up on the leash and asked Bear to heel. With the dog positioned against her left leg, she led him in and stopped a few paces from the bed. Confused, he whined and looked up at her for direction. "You don't even know he's here, do you?"

"His sense of smell has likely been dulled by the antiseptic scent of the soap you've been using," Steve said. "Take him closer to the bed, but be ready to hold him back."

Sameen jiggled the leash and walked him forward. As they neared the bed, Bear caught a whiff of something and dropped his nose to the floor. He sniffed around for a moment before abruptly lifting his head and staring at the person in the bed. "Recognize him?"

His wet nose quivering in the low light, he stretched his neck out and delicately sniffed John's hand. Slowly and with some uncertainty, the dog's tail began to wag. It gradually increased in speed until his entire backend was in motion and he started to dance from foot to foot with excitement.

"Know who it is now, Bear?" Steve asked, smiling at the dog's enthusiastic display.

With a high-pitched bark, he reared and put his front legs on the bed, eager for attention from his favorite handler. When none came, the dog pawed at John's arm and began to suspiciously sniff the pieces of medical equipment and bandages that were within his reach.

"He's sick, Bear," Sameen told him. "But he's starting to get better."

"We changed his bandages while you were out," Steve said, dropping into one of the bedside chairs. "All but two of the infected wounds are looking good."

"The bad ones on his leg?"

Steve nodded. "They're not as inflamed as they were the other day, so they're responding to treatment – just slower than the others."

"It'd be nice to know once and for all if it's going to heal or if we need to cut…hey! No! Bukken! (get down)" Sameen commanded sharply, catching the dog just as he began trying to lever himself up onto the bed. "You two can have all the cuddle time you want later. Right now Reese needs his space."

"Well, that went smoother than I thought it would," Steve muttered, watching as the dog merely sat and rested his chin on John's hand.

"He's seen Reese incapacitated before," Sameen said, walking over and settling into the chair beside him. "He knows the drill."

"He's really willing to risk it all someone, isn't he?" the doctor asked. "John, I mean."

"For the right person," she agreed. "Let's just say it's better to be on his protective side than his predatory one."

 _Funny…I feel exactly the same way about you…_ Steve thought. He stretched out his long legs and tried to get comfortable in the hard backed chair. "Next to losing a patient, this is the hardest part of medicine."

"Waiting?"

"Yup. Patience is something I try to instill in all my students from the beginning. People don't get better overnight like they do on TV and every case is different. I tell them medicine is fifty percent waiting and twenty percent hands on."

"That's only seventy percent – what about the other thirty?"

"Luck."

"Ah."

" _Luck seems to be reoccurring theme here, does it not?"_ the Machine asked.

"I just hope we didn't use our entire allotment early on…"

"Allotment of what?"

"Luck," Sameen said, scolding herself for the slip. "I hope Reese still has some left – he's going to need all he can get."

"No doubt."

The two doctors lapsed into silence. There was no rushing this part; John would wake when he was ready. It could take minutes, hours, even days for him to regain consciousness. They both knew the longer someone remained under, the longer it often took for them to come up out of it.

Sameen settled back in her chair and propped her feet on the end of John's bed. As she watched the rhythmic blip of his cardiac monitor, her mind began to wander. She thought about where they'd been, where they were now, and where they would go from here. She supposed the answer to the last part would largely depend on John and the others.

 _Even if Reese makes a full recovery and is able to work again, there's no guarantee that he'll want to. Severe trauma has a way of changing people – he's bounced back before, but there's a difference between being near-death and actually dying…_

A soft snore disturbed her thoughts. Sameen looked over at Steve to find he had dozed off. The last few days had been tough on them both. Even though they'd caught John's infection early, it was still a major cause for concern. Any setback at this point in his recovery – no matter how minor – could have fatal consequences if they weren't being vigilant. They'd resumed sitting with him around the clock as a precaution, and Steve had taken the last shift.

 _Let the man sleep…he deserves it…_ she thought and returned to her own musings. _Then there's Finch. He seemed more than eager to fly the coop once he was well enough to travel…whether he was running from guilt or was just plain burnt out…I don't think we could get him back for any reason…Fusco will likely stay onboard…as for me…I just wish we could…_

 _"I know what you're thinking, Sam,"_ the Machine said. _"But no matter how hard we try, we can never go back to the way it was. Samaritan changed us – took something from all of us – and for some, there's no getting it back. I'd like to think we could all come together as a team again – to save irrelevant lives and dispose of the evil that defiles society – but it's better to be realistic._

 _"As you're aware, I've begun recruiting new assets to aid in our plight, mostly people we've helped in the past that want to give back. Even for me, it's not the same. I miss working with you, Harry, John, Lionel, Root, and Joss. We were like one big dysfunctional family…complete with a dog. The losses we suffered were difficult…I may lack emotions in a literal sense, but Harry taught me well. I still feel the absence of the people that are missing and I see your pain…_

 _"My point is that we can't go back, but we can go forward, we just have to let ourselves do it. Humans are notorious for living in the past – I watched Harold and John struggle with their personal demons for years. They allowed their pasts to restrict their futures rather than merely shape them. Both men grew so much during our time together, but it only happened when they let go and allowed themselves the freedom to move on._

 _"We can move forward, Sameen, but only if you want to. I think we could be a formidable team, you and I, with a little help from a select few. And, if Lady Luck sticks around, maybe she can help convince some of the boys to come along too."_

Sameen frowned. She couldn't tell if she was being given a pep talk or being asked out on a date. It felt more like the latter, especially with the flirtatious inflection that was added to the last part. She thought the Machine was over reacting anyway. Thinking about the past and reminiscing about better times wasn't the same as living in it. Or was it?

She sighed and closed her eyes. She'd had enough of being philosophical for a while and was intent on enjoying the peace while she had the option. Lulled by the muted sounds of the medical equipment, she began to doze. The next thing she knew, the Machine was calling her name.

"Huh?" Sameen shot forward, her hand automatically going for the gun she kept at the small of her back. She was halfway out of the chair to find cover when the fog shrouding her brain lifted, and she realized where she was and why. Cursing, she shoved her weapon back into her waistband – briefly wondering why she was even carrying one – and dropped heavily back into the chair.

 _"See what mean about switching to decaf?"_

Angry for having been startled, still partially asleep, and dealing with the aftereffects of an adrenaline dump, she raised her middle finger in response to the comment.

The Machine chuckled. _"That's my girl – able to get her point across even without words."_

Sameen grunted and looked at her watch. She'd been out for nearly an hour.

 _"Sorry to have woken you, sweetie, but it looks like the big lug is finally going to join us."_

She looked over at the bed. Bear was standing with his front paws on the mattress, his tail slowly wagging as he watched John's face. The man was definitely coming around; she could see his fingers intermittently twitch and his forehead was deeply furrowed. She got to her feet and roughly bumped Steve on the knee as she walked by.

"Huh?!" He woke in much the same way that she had, without the immediate grab for a weapon.

"Look alive," she said, going around to the far side of the bed. "Reese is waking up."

Still partially in a daze, Steve lurched to his feet and over to the bed. "How long was I out?"

"About an hour – don't worry, I conked out too. We both suck at keeping watch." Nudging the dog out of the way with her hip, Sameen positioned herself so she would be in John's line of sight. "Reese? Reese, it's Shaw, can you hear me?"

"He may still be too far down to respond."

Unconvinced, Sameen took his hand. "Can you squeeze my hand, John?"

His ability to grip was greatly limited – his thumb was bound by the splint immobilizing his arm and a pulse oximeter clip was taped to his index finger – but he still managed to do as she asked with his other three fingers. Although it wasn't much, it was enough to make her momentarily grin from ear to ear.

"What about opening your eyes? Can you do that?"

With an obvious amount of effort, John's eyes slowly opened to half-mast. It was unclear if he could see anything or not, but just the fact he was responding to her simple commands was encouraging.

"Hey, Reese," Sameen said, purposely speaking a little slower than normal. "Welcome back."

John grimaced and quirked his neck as he registered the obstruction in his throat for the first time.

She took him by the chin. "Ah-ah – none of that. You're on a ventilator. I know it's annoying, but the guy in charge says you need it for a few more days and I happen to agree. Your lungs took a beating and they need to heal some more before you take control of them again. Now listen…

"I know you're groggy and confused as hell, so I'll skip to the good parts and leave the rest for later. You survived. Samaritan is gone and we walked away; Finch and Fusco made it out too.

"It was the Machine's doing. It had no way of knowing how things were ultimately going to pan out, but it _did_ know how you'd react if Finch tried to go down with the ship. With Root's help, it spent the weeks leading up to the final showdown laying the foundation for an escape plan. Despite their efforts, the chances of it actually working were still slim, even by your standards. You got lucky this time though, and everything came together. You were extracted and air lifted here, a private facility called Egret's Haven."

She paused and tried to gauge his level of comprehension. He seemed to be getting it, but even on a good day, interpreting him was like trying to read a foreign language – in the dark. "You getting any of this, Reese?" She felt light pressure across her fingers on the hand that was still holding his. "Thought so." But she sensed there was more to it, as well.

 _"He gets it, Sam, but he doesn't trust it,_ " the Machine said.

Well, you can't blame him for that… After learning about her own harrowing experience with Samaritan and the thousands of realistic simulations they had subjected her to, he had every reason to question whether what was happening was real or imagined.

"Hey, if you need some reassurance that this is legit, look who the Machine got to save your sorry ass," she said as she motioned Steve over.

The doctor stepped into his patient's field of vision. "Hi, John," he greeted, offering him a small smile. "I don't know if you remember me or not – I'm Steve Maxwell. I patched you up after you were injured on a mission a few years back."

Sameen felt another light squeeze on her hand. "He recognizes you," she replied, noticing a subtle shift in her partner's energy as he accepted Steve's presence as proof of reality.

"Good – maybe you'll get through this without any memory loss," he replied, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts. "Your injuries are severe, John, and there have been some serious complications along the way. We'll talk specifics later; right now just know that you have been improving. It's not going to be quick or easy, and there are no guarantees, but we're going to do all we can to get you the fullest recovery possible. This is a state-of-the-art facility that's staffed with professionals who are at the top of their field."

Sameen felt something cold and wet bump her hand and looked down to see Bear gazing up at her with pleading eyes. "Looks like someone wants to say hello," she said, stepping back to let the dog in beside her. He licked John's fingers and nosed his way under his palm until his alpha's hand was resting on his muzzle. "He just learned you were here about an hour ago. He was pretty stoked."

"He remembers the meatball trick I taught him," Steve said, a hint of pride in his voice. "I'll have to find some tennis balls and see if he can still hold six of them in his mouth."

A smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, John blinked heavily, already tiring in his weakened state.

"I have one more question before we let you go back to sleep, John – are you in any pain?"

Sameen watched him closely and was able to detect the barest of nods. "Yeah, he is."

As Steve went to get a booster of pain medicine, she put her hand on John's shoulder and leaned down to speak with him as privately as she could. "You're a lucky guy, Reese. It was surreal when I found out you were alive. When that missile hit, we all seriously thought you were gone and I'm just…" She paused and drew in a deep breath. This wasn't the time to let her muted emotions comes to the surface. "I'm just really glad we were wrong. It may not seem like it now, but we will get you through this. It's going to get ugly and we'll probably end up hating each other, but I don't care."

She looked up when Steve returned with the meds. He tipped his head, silently questioning if she wanted him to wait, but she shook her head. He approached the bed and injected the contents of the syringe into one of the IV lines.

"There are people out there that need you, Reese," Sameen said, watching as his eyelids slowly slid closed. "And I don't just mean the Numbers either." When she was certain he was asleep, she gave his shoulder a brief squeeze and straightened up.

"That should keep him comfortable for a while. I know he doesn't like the hard stuff, but he's going to need it for a while yet."

"Yeah, well, he usually doesn't know what's good for him."

Steve disposed of the needle and turned back to find Sameen looking at John with a distant expression on her face. "Complications aside, you think we can get him through this?"

She shrugged. "He's his own worst enemy. If we can keep him from withdrawing into himself when he starts getting frustrated, yeah, there's a chance. It just won't be for the faint of heart."

"I don't scare easy, so I'm in, I just don't know for how long. I've already extended my leave from Stanford twice – I don't know how much longer I can get without jeopardizing my job."

 _"No worries,"_ the Machine said. _"Arrangements are being made as we speak. He may have a three thousand mile commute, but I'll make sure he's here as much as possible."_

"I'm sure we can work something out," Sameen said.

The doctor shifted somewhat uncomfortably. "It's probably none of my business, but there were a few things you said to John that I didn't understand. Samaritan, Root, the Machine – who are they? How do they fit into all of this?"

 _"Tell him, Sammy,"_ the Machine urged.

"Everything?" Sameen asked, getting an odd look from Steve.

 _"Everything – he's more than earned the right know. I also think he'd make a great addition to our growing network of assets."_

"All right, but only because you said so." Ruffling the fur on Bear's head as she stepped over him, she gestured to the chairs beside the bed. "Reese is down for the count for a while. You got an hour – or three?"

"I have time – were you just talking to someone else?"

"More of a something actually, although it may argue that."

Steve's eyebrows rose, his expression a mixture of confusion, curiosity, and belief that he was dealing with a crazy person. "I see…"

"No, you don't," she said, dropping into one of the chairs. "But you will."

Suspecting he had just opened Pandora's Box, he slowly sank into the chair beside her. _I just hope I'll be able to stuff the lid back on if I don't like the sounds of what's coming out…_


	10. Chapter 10

Harold Finch slid open the double screen door and stepped out onto the veranda. The morning air was warm and fragrant with the briny scent of the Ligurian Sea. Sleek cormorants rode the thermals, floating effortlessly until a fish was spotted, and then they would plunge like a dart into the water's blue depths. Green mountains rose off to his left as far as he could see, and imposing rocky cliffs stretched equally as far to his right. It was truly Tuscany at its best.

Setting his mug of tea on the small table, the hacker took the sizable book he was carrying out from beneath his arm and settled into one of the plush chairs. The warm sun felt good on his face. Bracing his still healing gunshot wound with his hand, he carefully swung his legs up on the footrest and sighed. He'd been in the midst of making breakfast when Grace had shooed him out of the kitchen and told him to go relax. Relaxing was largely a new concept for him and he knew it would take time before he fully grasped how it was done.

He'd left for Italy mere days after the final standoff with Samaritan, against doctor's orders and in considerable pain. He had been packing the few belongings he cared to bring into his car when he'd heard footsteps behind him. There'd been no need turn around, he'd known who it was the moment they approached. He didn't know how Sameen had found him, nor had he cared.

They'd briefly discussed the climatic fall of Samaritan, confirming that the malicious AI had indeed been terminated. He'd barely kept himself together when he spoke of John's fate, his emotions surrounding the man's sacrifice even more painful than his physical wounds. When they'd shared what they could, he'd informed her that he was leaving and would be out of contact. Indefinitely. True to her nature, Sameen responded with a shrug, thanked him for the dog, and left without looking back.

He had flown himself, allowing the small jet's autopilot to do most of the work. He spent much of the time dozing, something he would have never even thought of doing in the past. With his life's work destroyed and the death of his friends, he felt he had little left to lose and to perish in the Atlantic seemed to be as fitting of an end as any.

He'd arrived in Italy a little before noon. After renting a private hanger and stowing his plane, he'd gone in search of a cab. The driver had baffled him for a moment when he'd asked for his destination. Harold had a goal – to find his lost love Grace Hendricks – but no plan, direction, or even a starting point for reaching it. He'd told the cabbie the first thing that came to mind – the name of the park where the Machine had last shown him Grace painting.

His doubt had only compounded when the cabbie dropped him off at the curb. The place was as big as Central Park and seemed just as popular; finding Grace in the vast sea of natives and tourists had instantly gone from implausible to virtually impossible. He'd wandered the grounds feeling dazed, lost, and increasingly discouraged. Lunch had consisted of green tea infused gelato and a dose of pain medication to dull the deep throb emanating from his wounded side.

The sun was just starting to set when Harold finally conceded failure. He'd turned back, intent on spending the night in his plane, when he saw her. At first he'd tried to tell himself that the woman he saw painting amidst the crowds wasn't – _couldn't_ – be her, but there was no denying it. From the vibrant red hair to the way she held her pallet and brush, it was the woman he loved with every fiber of his soul.

He'd moved as quickly as his body would allow, earning a few unkind words from people he bumped up against in his haste. So overjoyed by having found her, he'd never even considered what he would do if she'd rejected him until he'd reached the pivotal point of no return. His worry, however, proved to be unwarranted.

After an initial moment of utter shock, Grace had literally dropped her pallet and thrown her arms around him. Harold had tried to apologize and explain himself, but she would hear none of it. She'd hugged him tighter instead, the ferocity of her grip having hurt his injuries, both new and old. He'd ignored the pain and returned the embrace, neither caring about the small crowd of people that had started to gather.

He had no idea how long the hug lasted, but when it finally ended, they'd both had tears in their eyes. Someone shouted "Baciarla!" (kiss her) and everyone watching had begun to chant. After silently seeking permission with his eyes, he had kissed her, and the crowd erupted into cheers and whistles.

Harold sighed and took a sip of his tea. His reunion with Grace seemed as surreal now as it did when it was happening. He didn't know if it was fate that had brought them back together, or just sheer luck. _Either way, I owe it all to John…_

The hacker winced as if he'd been struck. Nearly a month had passed since that day on the roof of the high rise, and even the mere thought of his deceased partner still caused him pain. He abruptly pushed himself up from the chair and limped over to the railing. The view out over the water was stunning and he desperately drank in its beauty to drown out his distressing thoughts.

It hadn't taken long for he and Grace to be reacquainted. Over the course of several days, he'd told her everything, apologized for his charade, and asked for her forgiveness. She'd given it to him without hesitation, alleviating the heaviest burden he'd carried since the day the ferry was bombed. His relief had been short lived, however, as the grief over his friends and, to some extent the Machine, had quickly taken its place.

 _It wasn't supposed to end that way…_ he thought.

"…browns or toast?"

Harold turned to find Grace standing in the doorway, a wooden spoon in her hand and a few random smudges on her apron. "I'm sorry, Grace, what was it that you asked?"

"If you wanted hash browns or toast."

The hacker frowned; breakfast had become the furthest thing from his mind. "Whichever is easiest, my dear."

Grace hesitated, sensing his unrest. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine," he replied, probably a little too quickly to sound truthful. "Just watching the cormorants dry their wings in the sun." He held his arms out in an amusing masquerade of how the seabirds opened their wings to allow their feathers to dry.

Although her smile was tinged with uncertainty, she didn't press him. "Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. The bacon is a little extra crispy, but I caught it before it burned."

"It sounds delicious."

As she returned to the kitchen, his gaze returned to the water. They couldn't have asked for a more picturesque view. With Samaritan gone, he'd had free access to his money once again. They'd found, bought, and moved into the seaside cottage in less than a week. It was everything Grace had wanted and a place Harold could see himself happy in – eventually. Trading the constant hustle and bustle of New York City for the tranquility of the Tuscan coast was going to take some getting used to.

The place definitely had its benefits: the air was warm and fresh ( _it's quiet…_ ); the people were friendly ( _it's very quiet…_ ); the countryside was as beautiful as it was diverse ( _it's too quiet…_ ).

Harold frowned. He'd often longed for a little peace and now that he finally had it, he wasn't entirely sure it was what he really wanted. After living multiple lives, hiding in plan sight, and the constant need to look over your shoulder, he didn't even know if he remembered what living a 'normal' life was all about.

His frown deepening, he returned to his chair and reached for the book he'd brought out with him. It was a substantial text on the evolution and future of coding theory; something he'd picked up a small used bookstore while he and Grace had been shopping in town. He flipped it open to where he'd placed his tattered bookmark – approximately half way through – and stared at page in front of him as if it were blank. Although he'd found it to be an interesting read, he suddenly couldn't recall what the first five hundred and seventy-two pages had discussed. He closed the book with a frustrated snap and sighed.

 _You're losing it, Harold…_ he thought, sliding off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. _You've got to let go, move on…John gave his life for you…you can't waste a gift as precious as that…_

"Oh!" Harold gasped when a bird suddenly alighted on the railing. He watched curiously as it began to delicately preen the flight feathers on its left wing. It was a crow – more specifically a hooded crow – with a mixture of white and black plumage. Although no two birds were identical, this one was uniquely patterned with far more black than white. In fact, the only white on the bird was a small triangle under its chin and another patch on its belly. It almost looked like it was… "…Wearing a suit…"

The bird regarded him with one eye while it continued to preen, finishing with the left wing and moving to the right. As it ruffled and smoothed its iridescent feathers, the morning sun played off its back, revealing a full spectrum of colors. "Hello, Mr. Crow," he greeted quietly. "Although, I suppose it could be Mrs. Crow…your species isn't dimorphic like some. Either way, your feathers are stunning. I know someone who dresses just like you," he said, not feeling foolish at all speaking to the bird. "Or I _knew_ someone. He's gone now and I…"

The crow stopped preening and cocked its head; its piercing gaze intelligent and calculating.

Harold tried to swallow, couldn't, and cleared his throat instead. "I miss him dearly."

The screen door abruptly slid open, startling the bird into flight. Harold watched as it flew off toward the trees, sad to see it go.

"I hope you're hungry, Harold," Grace said as she set two mounded over plates on the table. "I may have gotten carried away…"

"Oh, my…" the hacker uttered, looking at the meal she had presented him with. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, sausage, fruit salad, baked beans, and home fries – it was so much – too much – but he didn't have the heart to tell her his appetite had fled. "It looks amazing – thank you."

She smiled and kissed his forehead. "Don't thank me until you taste it." She was just about to sit down when the phone began to ring.

"Just let it got to voicemail," Harold said as she headed for the house. As far as he was concerned, the days of running for a ringing phone were over.

"It could be the curator for the gallery I've been trying to get space at. Do you want anything else while I'm up?"

"I'm good, thanks."

As Grace went to answer the phone, Harold studied his plate. Even on a good day, there was no way he'd be able to finish even half of what she had given him. He looked up at the sound of approaching feathers to find the crow returning to the rail. It landed, cawed once, and bobbed its head.

"You're a rather friendly fellow, aren't you? Would you like something to eat?" He picked up a butter and jelly-smothered square of toast and held it out. The bird cocked its head and made a rattling noise deep its throat. Harold slowly moved his hand closer, stopping whenever the crow looked as it if would fly away. Once the bird realized his intentions, it reached out and took the offering in its beak. It stood for a moment, clutching the bread like a prize before darting off for the privacy of the trees to eat. Harold smiled – birds had always made even the darkest times seem bright.

"Harold!" Grace called as she came from the house, the phone in one hand and a plate of the cinnamon coated zeppoles she'd picked up at the market in the other. "It's for you."

"Me?" the hacker uttered, confused and more than a little surprised. He'd only given the number to a handful of people since they'd gotten it and he couldn't imagine why any of them would be calling at such an hour. "Who is it?"

She shrugged as she handed him the phone and gave him a look that clearly said 'answer it and find out'.

He put the receiver to his ear with some uncertainty. "Hello?"

" _ **Hey, Finch. How's Tuscany?"**_

Harold couldn't believe it. "Ms. Shaw?"

" _ **Yup. You're a hard person to find, you know that?"**_

"Well, yes, that was the whole point. How _did_ you find me?"

" _ **I had some help."**_

He frowned. "You don't mean…she's back?"

" _ **Oh yeah and with her new voice, as creepy as ever."**_

"But if the Machine is back, does that mean…?"

 _" **No – Samaritan's history. Even if Greer was smart enough to backup his backup, the modifications Root made to the Machine's coding would enable her to seek out and squash it like a bug."**_

"I see. Is she still generating Numbers?"

 _" **Yep – Fusco and I have been kept pretty busy. The Machine's also been doing some selective recruiting of her own. I was skeptical at first, but the extra help is kinda nice. I can sleep in, make plans, possibly take a vacation someplace warm…"**_

"Well I'm glad to hear you're back in business," Harold replied. "But I was serious when I said I wasn't interested in returning…"

 _" **Don't worry, Finch, I'm not calling to beg you to come back."**_

"You're not? Oh…" Harold was surprised to hear the disappointment in his own voice. "So, then, why have you called?"

 _" **Can't a person call up an old friend just to see how they're doing?"**_

"Why yes, of course, but I…"

 _" **And something's come up…"**_

Harold sighed; he'd known there was more to it than mere courtesy. "Ms. Shaw, I thought I was clear about my…"

 _" **Yeah, yeah, you're not coming back, I get it – just here me out, Finch. I'll spare you the onslaught of details and skip right to the punch line – Reese is alive."**_

The hacker abruptly dropped the mug of tea he'd been bringing to his lips. He hardly felt the hot liquid that soaked into his trousers or registered the concern on Grace's face. "I'm sorry, Ms.. Shaw. I think our connection must be bad. What did you just say?"

 _" **John Reese – the tall, moody guy you hired to be your bully killer, he's alive**."_

"H-how is that possible?" he stammered. "Samaritan had men on the roof and the missile…"

 _" **It's complicated, but it comes down to Root, the Machine, and a shit ton of luck."**_

"I see…" Harold couldn't believe what he was hearing. J _ohn's alive? No, no it's impossible. If the gunmen didn't kill him, then the missile had to have. There must be some sort of mistake, a misidentification or…_

" _ **Finch, you still there?"**_

"Yes, I'm here. I'm just…he's really alive?"

 _" **It's hard to swallow, I know, I didn't believe it myself at first, but yeah, the big guy's still with us."**_

"How long have you known?"

 _" **A little over a week. The Machine made no mention of him during the first two weeks following the attack. Initially it was because she couldn't communicate, but then she wanted to protect me from grieving twice if Reese didn't survive his injuries."**_

"That's pretty close to personification, Ms. Shaw," Harold said, but there was a hint of curiosity beneath his skepticism.

 _" **It's a new Machine, Finch. I'm telling you, whatever Root put into her coding gave her AI a huge boost."**_

 _Root…another friend whose blood is on my hands…_ Harold thought dismally. He'd struggled at first to figure out why the Machine had chosen her as a catalyst, but he gradually understood its reasoning. Intelligent, crafty, and unabashedly lethal, Samantha Groves had slowly gone from being a threat, to an asset, to a friend. Despite her change in status, he'd never allowed himself to fully trust her when it came to making modifications to the Machine's coding. _In hindsight, I should have listened to her from the beginning. I was too cautious – too afraid of what the Machine might become if I'd not restrained it. But she was right all along – if I'd only listened – trusted – maybe things would have never reached the point that they did…_

 _" **Finch?"**_

"Yes, I'm sorry, I was lost in thought for a moment."

"Harold…" Grace whispered from across the table. "Is everything alright?"

The hacker nodded and offered a smile that he hoped didn't look as forced as it felt. "What hospital are you at?"

 _" **We're not, per se. Reese was airlifted to a private facility called Egret's Haven. It's upstate, not far from the…"**_

"I'm familiar with Egret's Haven," Harold replied. "I've never been personally, but I'm aware of what they do. I trust that the staff is knowledgeable?"

 _" **There are a few over-competent assholes, but the majority of them are decent. The physician in charge of Reese's care is really good; he doesn't have the ego I'd expect from someone coming from Stanford."**_

"Stanford?"

 _" **Yeah, in fact, you supposedly know him. Does the name Steve Maxwell ring a bell?"**_

Harold gasped. "Yes, yes it does. He saved Mr. Reese's life a few years back, but...how on Earth did he get involved in all this?"

" _ **The Machine. Believe me, his side of the story is even more confusing than mine."**_

"How is he doing?" he asked, almost afraid to know.

 _" **Overall, he's a wreck, but for someone who was shot full of holes, nearly bled out, and was clinically dead for three and a half minutes, he's doing great."**_

The hacker felt his stomach clench. He briefly wondered if it would inconvenience Sameen to sugarcoat things once and a while, but then he realized she probably was. "It sounds serious."

 _" **It is, and he's not out of danger yet, but he's slowly improving. He's been off the ventilator for a few days and it looks like the leg we thought he was going to lose is finally heading in the right direction."**_

"Lose a leg? How did that come about?"

 _" **His right femur was shattered in the firefight. The guys that pulled him off the building got a tourniquet on to stop the hemorrhaging, but the surrounding vessels, tissue, and muscles were heavily damaged. The circulation was poor and keeping infection out of it has been an ongoing challenge. It's starting to look good, though – well, more normal anyway."**_

"I see." Harold sensed there was a lot she wasn't telling him, and – for now at least – he was grateful. "Is he cooperating?" he asked, knowing the man's strong dislike of being out of commission.

 _" **Right now he is, but we're not giving him much of a choice. He's spending most of the time sedated to help with pain control and to keep him quiet. He's made it clear he's not happy about it, but tough. These injuries are severe even by his lofty standards and we don't need him doing anything stupid like trying to get out of bed."**_

"Stand your ground, Ms. Shaw. You and Dr. Maxwell know what he needs right now more than he does himself."

 _" **No kidding. Did you want to say hello?"**_

"Oh…I…don't know," he stammered, the offer catching him off guard. "Is he even awake?"

 _" **He's pretty groggy, but he surfaces every now and then…"**_

There was movement on Sameen's end of the line.

 _" **Oh yeah, he's awake. I don't know for how long or how much sense he'll make. Just don't freak out if he doesn't say much – we're still largely communicating with dirty looks and rude hand gestures."**_

"He's not speaking?"

 _" **He is, just not a lot."**_

"Is there a reason for it? Could he have sustained permanent damage when…"

 _" **You're freaking out, aren't you?"**_

"Given what I've been told, I believe it's a very reasonable response."

 _" **He saw a neurologist yesterday and everything appears to be in order. There were a few irregularities on his EEG, but the specialist wasn't overly concerned. Between the drugs, the coma, and the sheer amount of resources needed to heal his injuries, he just doesn't have a lot of energy to spare. I also think he's got a lot on his mind, and you know John, he's…"**_

 _"The strong, silent type?" Harold offered._

 _" **I was going to say more bite than bark, but yours works too – in a sappy sort of way. Look, he knows you're alive, but I think it would help if he knew where you were and who you were with."**_

"All right," Harold said. The moment the words left his mouth, his heart started to race and his palms became sweaty. _Why am I so nervous about talking to Mr. Reese…?_ He wondered. _Do I expect anger or animosity…or the awkwardness of speaking to someone I said goodbye to thinking I'd never see them again…? Or do I not know how to thank someone who so selflessly offered their life up for my own…?_

 _" **Here he is, Finch."**_

His mouth went dry. "Mr. Reese?" he asked tentatively.

 _" **Finch."**_

Harold hadn't expected the rush of emotion he felt upon hearing his former associate's voice. He sounded tired and weak, but there was no doubting who it was. "It's so good to hear you, John. I had no idea that you…I never thought there was a chance you…"

 _" **That makes two of us."**_

"Ms. Shaw didn't give me many details, but she said Dr. Maxwell has been overseeing your care?"

 _" **He's here. Bear is too…he smells funny."**_

Harold's eyebrows rose. He wasn't sure what to make of John's remark and decided it must have been the pain medication talking. "I'm glad to hear that. Are they treating you well? Is Ms. Shaw being nice?"

 _" **When there are witnesses."**_

The hacker smiled. It was a tiny glimpse at the real man he had hired as a partner and grown to care for as a friend. "Mr. Reese, if I had known or even suspected you might have been alive, I would have at least…"

 _" **Where are you?"**_

"Tuscany," he replied. "I found Grace. We're together again."

 _" **Then you're where you belong."**_

"I need to thank you, John. What you did for me was…well, I don't know how to put it in words exactly but…Mr. Reese? Are you there?"

 _" **Sorry, Finch,"**_ Sameen said, coming back over the line. **" _He's drifted out again. Sometimes he sticks around longer, but it's usually only a couple of minutes."_**

"Well, he needs rest right now more than he needs to socialize."

 _" **What was the last thing you told him?"**_

"That I'm Tuscany with Grace. Why?"

 _" **He smiled. You didn't take his sacrifice for granted. You moved on and that's what he wanted."**_

"Ms. Shaw, I'm coming back," Harold blurted, shooting a furtive glance toward Grace. "Not to stay, mind you, I just want to see John for myself."

 _" **I'm sure he'd be glad to see you – I know Bear would."**_

"I'll need a day or so to get things in order."

 _" **Well, we're not going anywhere anytime soon, so you know where to find us. You can reach me at this number, just do me a favor and remember the time zone difference. I don't want to be woken up at two in the morning so you and John can chat."**_

"Of course."

 _" **I'll see if Maxwell can arrange a room for you to use – the nearest hotel is at least an hour's drive from here. Will you be coming alone or is Grace going to be your plus one?"**_

"That remains to be determined."

 _" **Honeymoon suite it is."**_

"Thank you for the call, Ms. Shaw. The news was unexpected, but sorely needed."

 _" **Keep in touch, Finch."**_

"I'll talk to you soon."

When the called ended, Harold lowered the phone from his ear and looked at it as if he expected it to disappear. _Did this really happen? Did I just talk to John Reese, the man I was certain was dead no more than ten minutes ago…?_

"Harold?"

He looked up to see Grace watching him, worry and curiosity on her face. "That was Ms. Shaw."

"How did she get your number?"

"The Machine," he replied. "It survived the ICE-9 virus – Ms. Groves must have been able to shield a copy of its base code. But that's not the reason she called."

Grace looked at him expectantly.

"Mr. Reese…is alive."

"John? But that's impossible...you said yourself he was killed in a missile strike."

"He was – or so I thought. After we said goodbye, I left. I never looked back. I _couldn't_ look back. I was afraid I'd see…" He pulled the napkin from his lap as he stood and walked over to the railing. More cormorants were drying their wings in the sun, their long beaks pointed skyward as they soaked in the warmth.

"Did she say how?" she asked, easily slipping an arm around his waist as she joined him.

"Just that it had something to do with the Machine and Ms. Groves. She didn't even know he was alive herself for the first two weeks following the confrontation. The Machine kept it from her until it knew Mr. Reese was improving." He sighed and shook his head. "I can't believe it – John's alive."

"Hard to take in, isn't it?" she asked. "Learning someone you thought was dead really isn't."

"You have no…"

"Harold…"

Her long-suffering tone made him stop. "What?"

Grace merely tipped her head.

"What? I don't under…oh…dear God! What am I saying? You _do_ know what it's like!" Feeling foolish, he drew her into his arms and hugged her tight. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said, returning the embrace. "There are a lot of emotions involved in something like this – you're bound to feel overwhelmed."

"You seemed to handle it quite well," he said, resting his chin on the top of her head. "What's your secret – or are you just living up to your namesake?"

She smiled. "I had more time to come to terms with you being gone. Or maybe it's because I always felt that you were out there somewhere watching over me. And, the day you showed up, just proved I was right."

Despite the shock he still felt from the news he'd received about John, the hacker couldn't help but smile. _How I love this woman…_ he thought, kissing her forehead.

Grace snuggled against him. "So, when do we leave?"

"We? Oh, you don't have to come…I'll only be gone a few days, a week tops…"

"I want to come."

"You do? What about the phone calls you're expecting – the curators?"

"This is more important than hanging a few paintings in a dark corner at a gallery somewhere," she said. "Are the bad men gone?"

"Yes, of course. They've been gone for some time now," he replied, assuming she meant the agents from Decima. "You'll be quite safe."

She reached up and placed a hand against his cheek. "I meant the men that were after you and your friends."

"Yes, they're gone too," he said, deciding not to tell her that several of Decima'sand Samaritan's agents had been one and the same. "And there's no danger of another entity like them forming again."

"Because of the safeguards Root put into place?"

He nodded. "It's an open system now and operates without an administrator's assistance. If it senses a threat trying to undermine its directive, it has the ability to terminate it." Even though he liked the idea in principle, it was probably the one modification Root made that bothered him the most. His responsible side – or more likely his paranoid one – wondered if it was possible for the Machine to ever become as malicious as Samaritan. He could only hope Root programmed a failsafe of some sort that would allow a chosen few to intervene if its core became corrupt and began doing more harm than good.

"So, when do we leave?"

"You really want to come?"

"Yes," Grace replied. "I'd like to meet your friends – for real this time. And I want to be there to support you."

"I'll have to arrange runway time with the airport and we'll need a few days to get things in order here…"

"Harold," she said, immediately recognizing his dithering. "We've barely been here a week; we're still living out of boxes. There's nothing to put in order here beyond locking the front door."

The hacker frowned. Even after so many years apart, she was still able to read him as easily as a book. "All right. I'll call the airport after breakfast and try to reserve a departure time for tomorrow morning. Does that sound good?"

Grace gave him a quick kiss on the lips. "It sounds great. Speaking of breakfast, I'm sure it's getting rather…hey! Shoo!"

The crow had returned and was helping himself to the pile of scrambled eggs on one of the plates. The bird raised his wings and cawed once, but was undeterred by her attempt to scare him away.

"It's all right," Harold assured her.

"But it's a crow!"

"Would you feel differently if it was a cardinal or a jay?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "He's eating our food!"

"He won't take much, besides, you made more than enough to share." The hacker smiled fondly, as amused as he was delighted to have earned this bird's trust. "They're very intelligent creatures. I was talking to him earlier when he landed on the rail. The unique patterning of his plumage reminded me of Mr. Reese's suit." Finished with the eggs, the crow snatched one of the donut-like zeppoles and darted off toward the trees. "And he apparently shares the same poor eating habits as John too…"

Grace rolled her eyes. The man's fascination with birds would never seize to amaze her. "All right Birdman of Tuscany. I need to check on the muffins that are in the oven. I'll be right back."

Harold searched the tree line, hoping to catch a glimpse of their feathered guest, but he was nowhere to be found. He shifted his attention to the ocean and a pair of gulls effortlessly riding the gently undulating waves. He was once again struck by the view's simple beauty. _Our own little piece of Italy…and after tomorrow, I may never see it again…_

The hacker stepped back as if he'd been struck. _Where did_ that _come from…? What a terrible thought…no…it's something more than that…it's a…_ "Premonition…"

He felt foolish for even having considered such a thing. He'd purchased the property as a gift for Grace and to serve as a starting point for what he considered to be his next stage in life. Unless his plane went down – and he hadn't gotten that sense of peril – they would be back within a week.

Whether the result of a stressed mind, cold feet, or some dormant nostalgia for the old days, he knew it was something he had to keep to himself.

 _I don't know what's more disturbing…_ he thought. … _The premonition itself, or that the idea of never seeing this place again isn't bothering me nearly as much as it should…_


	11. Chapter 11

John woke to a hissing sound in his ear. With his head heavily clouded and his thought process maddeningly slow, the first probable explanation to come to mind was some sort of leak. With no distinct odor in the air, he couldn't tell if it was gas or chemical, but either one had the potential to be hazardous, explosive, or both. There was an alarm too; a slow, monotone beep that was barely loud enough to hear.

 _I've got to get out of here…_ He tried to move, but found he couldn't. His limbs were heavy and weak, a potential side effect from any number of different dangerous agents. He tried moving again. This time a sharp pain radiating up his right leg stopped him cold.

 _Injured…_ John didn't know how he'd gotten into this particular situation, but it was likely related to their latest Number. Although he couldn't remember who they were or what they'd done to attract the Machine's attention, their plight wasn't his immediate concern. Getting out of and away from the building before he was either overcome by the toxic fumes or a spark ignited an explosion had taken top priority.

With the pain in his leg fading to a tolerable level, he tried once again to move.

 _"John…"_

He hesitated when he heard his name. The voice was familiar, but he didn't trust it and resumed his efforts to sit up or roll over – whichever came first.

" _You need to keep still, John…"_

 _No…_ he thought, noticing that the alarm was picking up speed. _I_ need _to get out of here…_

 _"John – listen to me: you're not in danger. You're dreaming. Open your eyes, John."_

 _Open my eyes…?_ Lost in the urgency of the moment, he'd sworn his eyes _were_ open.

 _"Come on, big fella, let me see those smoky blues."_

John slowly cracked his eyelids, anticipating the irritation that the leaking agent was sure to bring. When his eyes didn't immediately start to water and burn, he cautiously opened them all the way. Overhead was a plain gray ceiling with rows of inactive lights recessed into the tiling.

 _"There, now isn't that better?"_

As his vision cleared and he was able to focus, he saw that the ceiling wasn't as plain as he'd first thought. Almost directly overhead, something he didn't immediately recognize was suspended from one of the tiles.

 _"Kind of an odd place to hang a fifth of whiskey, isn't it?"_

He had to squint, but there was no denying that the object dangling from a string was indeed a small bottle of whiskey.

 _"It's there to help you remember if you feel confused."_

 _I don't have time for this…_ he thought, the sense of urgency to get away from the dangerous leak returning.

 _"You know how some people tie a piece of string around their finger to help them remember to do something? It's sort of like that, only instead of signifying that loaf of bread you need to pick up on your way home from work, it's to remind you of what happened and where you are. It was Sam's idea – pretty ingenious if you ask me."_

Images abruptly began to flash through his mind. He wasn't sure if it was the bottle or the mere mention of a familiar name, but the rapid swirl of imagery told him things were not as they seemed. They started with the firefight against Samaritan's men and progressed into a complicated jumble of snippets from his brief moments of consciousness. As the reality of his true predicament set in, the feeling of urgency he'd had dissipated, leaving him feeling drained, relieved, and most of all – foolish.

There was no leak. The drugs combined with his training and a lifetime of high-risk, do or die missions had turned the innocuous sounds of medical equipment into a perilous situation. He sighed, or at least tried to. The nasal cannula resting under his nose largely prevented it. He wanted the annoying contraption to be gone; its insistent hissing was threatening to draw him back into unreality he had woken to. Between the splints and traction supports, however, he was essentially immobile and at the mercy of Sameen, Steve, and the other people assigned to his care.

" _Was it a flashback?"_ the Machine asked.

John shook his head.

 _"A nightmare?"_

"No."

 _"Anything you want to talk about?"_

"No."

 _"It might make you feel better."_

"I tried therapy, remember? It didn't work for me."

 _"Maybe if you hadn't taken the therapist home with you…"_

John sent an annoyed glare in the direction of the security camera.

 _"You could still get her back, you know; come clean, tell her everything. And with more assets at our disposal, a real relationship may even be possible."_

"It's water under the bridge."

 _"Is it? Because you and Iris made such an adorable couple…"_

"Enough." He meant the word to come out as a sharp command, but it ended up sounding more like a plea. He wasn't having this conversation right now, and especially not with the Machine.

 _"Whatever you want, Casanova."_

John rolled his eyes shut. He was seriously starting to regret allowing Sameen to give him an earwig. He had nothing against the Machine having a voice, but the fact it had chosen to use Root's was beyond creepy.

Silence fell over the room. John began to doze, his energy levels still frustratingly low. He was nearly asleep when his body gave an involuntary jerk. Pain shot through his leg, jolting him awake. He tensed before he could catch himself, and set off a series of painful flares across his chest, back, and arms.

 _"You're in pain."_

"It'll pass," he said through clenched teeth.

 _"It's not long before your next dose of medication, but you don't have to suffer in the meantime."_

He knew the Machine was referring to the morphine pump beside the bed. The trigger was within easy reach of his left hand, but he wouldn't use it. As the pain continued to intensify and spread, John found himself grateful for the oxygen he had loathed only moments ago. "I can handle it."

 _"I beg to differ. Your heart rate has nearly doubled and your blood pressure has sharply risen."_

"You're minding my business now?"

 _"You're a primary asset, John. I'm concerned for your well-being."_

"Pain is part of life."

 _"It also inhibits the healing process. I'm alerting Sameen."_

"No! Shaw doesn't need to know…"

" 'Shaw doesn't need to know' what?" Sameen asked as she entered the room with Bear trotting at her heel.

 _"He's in a lot of pain, Sam."_

"I can see that," she agreed, noting her partner's elevated vital signs, tight jaw, and obvious discomfort. Without even asking for his permission, she picked up the remote for the morphine pump and activated it.

"Shaw…"

"I don't want to hear it, Reese."

The drugs worked quickly. It was a low dose compared to the maintenance cocktail he got several times a day, but it was enough to put him off balance and remind him why he didn't like the hard stuff.

Sameen watched as he slowly, almost begrudgingly, began to relax. "Are we going to go through this every time, John?" she asked. "If you're not going to help us help you, then we're just going to do it for you."

"I can handle the pain."

"Do I have to show you your x-rays again to remind you how many pieces your right arm and leg are in right now? Or better yet, I'll get the jar of slugs so you can see how many they've dug out of you so far."

" _You do kind of have to feel sorry for him – in a whipped puppy sort of way,"_ the Machine said in her ear. _"He's been through a lot, Sammy. I know it's not your style, but maybe you should spare him the teeth and claws for now."_

Sameen set her jaw and sighed. She didn't know what was worse: being lectured by the Machine or knowing it was right. "Listen," she said, forcing herself to soften her tone from totally pissed to just annoyed. "We're not in a combat situation; you're here to heal. Your injuries are severe, John, and no one expects you to endure the pain from them on your own. Do yourself and everyone around you a favor and save the tough guy persona for the streets."

An explosive sneeze followed by a pitiful whine effectively ended the conversation.

"Bear?" John lifted his head as much as he could and was just able to see the tips of two black ears over the side of the bed.

"Don't fall for it," Sameen said, giving the dog a disapproving look. "He's just looking for sympathy because he needed another bath."

The ex-op drummed the last three fingers of his left hand on the mattress, inviting the Malinois to come closer. "Didn't he just have one yesterday?"

"Yep. And he would have been in the clear for three whole days if he hadn't gone and done something stupid. I don't know what he rolled in, but it was sticky as hell and smelled like rotting death. When scrubbing wasn't enough, I wound up using acetone to get it all off his fur."

"City dog in the country," John said, rubbing Bear's soft muzzle.

"Yeah well, it's the last time I'm letting him off leash for a while. It's going to take days to get that stench off my hands." She held up the insulated container she'd brought with her. "You hungry?"

"No."

"You expect me to believe that meager amount of juice you had earlier filled you up?"

"I didn't want that, either."

"No, but you had some; just like you're going to have some of this."

"Shaw…"

"I know, I know – you're not hungry. Well, guess what? I don't care. Your body needs calories to heal and food is a better source than anything we can push through an IV. Your appetite will come back, it just needs a kick in the ass to get it going again."

John's expression remained doubtful as she poured some of the steaming reddish brown liquid from the insulated container into a cup. The juice Steve had given him earlier had been his first attempt at drinking something besides water. It had settled poorly and caused stomach cramps that were bad enough to break through the haze of the pain medication.

"This isn't even hospital food, per se," she said, seeing his uncertain look. "It's a minestrone soup Maxwell whipped up last night after the kitchen closed. I put some in the blender on high for like ten minutes and then strained it. Needless to say, it's been sufficiently liquefied." She reached into to her pocket and withdrew a wrapped straw and a plastic spoon. "Now, think you can handle a straw, or do I need to break out the airplane and give you a hand?"

" _He is more of a muscle car sort of guy…"_ The Machine said in both their ears. _"Maybe he'd prefer something more sporty like a Mercedes or a BMW."_

She held up the spoon as if studying it. "Airplane, sports car – I'll break out Charlie the Choo Choo if that what he wants."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. The fact he could literally do nothing for himself was bad enough; the thought of Sameen hand feeding him was horrifying. "There is no way in hell I'm…"

Sameen couldn't hold a straight face any longer. "Relax, Reese," she said with a smirk. "I know you'd rather starve than resign yourself to something as undignified as being handfed. I'm just screwing with you." She flipped the spoon into the trash and tore the wrapper off the straw.

He pegged her with an irritated glare as she brought the cup within his reach. He may not have been able to do anything right then, but he was a patient man and possessed a very good memory. Payback, as they say, would be a bitch.

"Come on, suck it up. It's getting cold."

John put his mouth over the straw and drew in a hesitant sip. The flavor – a savory mix of vegetables, broth, and herbs – was good and easily put to shame anything he'd ever gotten out of a can. The liquefied soup was salty, but not overly so, and his body immediately seized on the vital nutrient. Before he knew it, he had consumed nearly half of what she had given him.

"I see you approve," Sameen said, mildly surprised by his reaction.

"Maxwell's a good cook."

"Yeah, I noticed that. You want more?"

He shook his head. Mentally he wanted more, but his stomach – now heavy with the warm liquid – didn't. "Maybe later."

"That's fair." She took the cup and looked inside. "You did pretty good for someone who wasn't hungry."

John frowned. "I wasn't."

"Right…" she said, unconvinced. "Your belly may not know what it wants, but your body sure does. You do that a few times a day and you'll get your strength back twice as fast." She took the straw from the cup and offered Bear the rest of the soup. "Now, I have a question and I want the truth. How's your pain?"

He opened his mouth to respond and shut it again, knowing she wouldn't accept the answer if he blurted it out too quickly. "It's nothing I can't manage."

"Are you sure? 'Cuz I'm trying to decide whether or not I can delay your next dose of meds for a while. You have company coming, and it would be better if you were present rather than sleeping."

"I'm fine," he insisted, unsure how else he could convince her.

"Well, the verdict's still out on that, but we'll give delaying the meds a try," she said, noting her partner actually looked relieved. _Be it pride, stubbornness, or some sort of character flaw, I'll never understand who he's trying to impress…_

"Who's coming?" John asked. "Another specialist?"

"I guess you could say that, but I think he considers himself more of a freelance at this point."

 _"Speaking of which, Sam, the eagle has landed and is heading for the lobby."_

"All right. I need to go meet and greet. Can I trust you two boys alone for a few minutes?" she asked, looking first to John and then to Bear. The ex-op glowered; the Malinois licked the remnants of the soup from his nose and sneezed. "The dog's in charge. I'll be right back."

Alone at last, John drew in a deep breath and shut his eyes. He wasn't in the mood for company of any kind, but the thought of yet another specialist made him shudder. He'd lost count of how many had been in during the last few days – a pulmonologist, a cardiologist, a neurologist, a physiotherapist, an orthopedic surgeon – probably the only type of specialist he hadn't seen was a psychiatrist and he was just waiting for one of those to walk through the door. Although he'd been in a drug-induced fog during most of their visits, all of their poking and prodding was still a disruption and left him feeling drained.

He could feel the distant pull of the morphine booster and was tempted to follow it. Sameen wanted him awake for whatever reason, but he had no interest in being sociable. If he was asleep, there was a chance the person would go away, and perhaps not come back. He was on the fringes of a doze when he a heard a familiar voice coming down the hall.

"…Turbulence in a thunderstorm. It was disconcerting, but we came out of it no worse for…"

 _That almost sounds like…no…_ John abruptly stopped himself mid-thought. _It's not who you think it is. Finch is in Italy where he belongs. You're hearing things again. Remember the gas leak? This is the same damn thing…_

"Oh, sure. I leave you alone for ten minutes and you fall asleep."

He jumped, earning himself a body-wide jolt of pain. Lost in thought, he hadn't heard Sameen enter the room. He was about to suggest she go do something that was both crude and humanly impossible when he opened his eyes and saw the identity of his company.

"Finch," he uttered, completely stunned by the appearance of his friend.

"Mr. Reese."

"But you…I thought…you came back."

"For a short while, yes," he replied, greeting Bear who had come trotting over as they entered the room. The dog's tail wagged furiously and he groaned with delight as Harold scratched under his collar. "Although I trusted Ms. Shaw when she said you were being taken care of, I still wanted to see you for myself."

"How're you feeling?" John asked.

"Feeling?"

"You were shot."

The hacker was taken aback. Trussed up and tethered to an alarming amount of medical machinery, he didn't understand how the younger man could be more concerned about anyone else's wounds than his own. "Oh, that, right. It's fine. It talks to me every now and then, but it's getting better every day." He gave the woman beside him a gentle tug forward. "You remember Grace, don't you Mr. Reese?"

"Of course," John replied, offering her a smile.

She considered him a moment. "You offered your life in place of Harold's?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am, but I was only doing my…" He hadn't even finished his sentence before she leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. And if that wasn't shock enough, what she whispered in his ear afterwards was.

"You're an angel."

John didn't know what to say. He'd been called many things in his lifetime – most of which he deserved – but an angel wasn't one of them. "Ms. Hendricks, I…"

"It's Grace, and I meant what I said," she interjected, her tone clearly indicating that she wasn't going to accept any of his excuses. She stepped back, squeezed Harold on the shoulder, and went over to where Sameen was standing by the sink.

"I can do that," Sameen said after they'd conversed quietly for a moment. "Hey, I'm going to show Grace where you two are going to rooming. It's not quite five-stars, but it's clean, has indoor plumbing, and comes with free cable and Wi-Fi. You two play nice. Bear, you're with us; komen (come)."

The dog obeyed the command willingly enough, but stopped for a moment in the doorway and looked back at the two men before following after the women.

"You've got your hands full with that one, Finch," John said once they were alone.

"Yes, I do," Harold replied, a small, smitten grin on his lips. He sobered quickly when he looked down at his former employee, and was reminded of the reason he was there. He began to pick absently at the stray pieces of dog hair stuck to his suit. "John…"

"You don't have to say anything, Harold."

"No, no, I think I do, I just don't…"

The old man's face twitched with emotion, and the next thing John knew, he was engulfed in a hug. The pain it caused was tremendous, but it wasn't as bad as being unable to return the embrace. He did the only thing he could do – he hooked his chin over Harold's shoulder and held tight.

He didn't know how long they remained that way, but he suspected if anyone walked by they would mistake them for more than just close friends. He didn't care. This was what Harold needed, and truth be known, it was what he needed too. When they'd seen each other last, they'd literally thought it was for the last time. The dangerous nature of their work had formed a bond between them that was so strong it was akin to family. And, despite the gender stereotypes and clichés, sometimes even tough guys needed a hug.

When Harold finally released his grip and stepped back, both men had moisture in their eyes. The hacker pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and quickly wiped his away. "I'm sorry, John," he said, going over to the window and looking out at the field beyond. "I made myself promise I wouldn't get so emotional, but seeing you in this condition and knowing I'm the reason behind it is very difficult. What you did for me – for the world – I don't know if I can properly put into words how I feel.

"I'm ashamed to say I was angry at you at first. I thought you were being selfish by taking my place in the path of the missile. Expectation dictates that a captain is supposed to go down with his ship. The Machine was my responsibility; therefore I felt it was my place – my _duty_ – to right any wrong that may have resulted from it. Granted Samaritan wasn't directly my creation, but I did have a hand in developing the technology. And if I had heeded Ms. Groves' warning early on, Greer would have never gotten his hands on Arthur's prototype in the first place.

"I also felt betrayed by the deal you made with the Machine and the fact you both kept it from me. That wasn't how it was supposed to work. I was the Administrator – its Creator – it was supposed to take orders from me, not keep secrets. I understood why you did it, but it still didn't make it right in my mind.

"My misgivings were short lived, however, when I realized that I was the one being selfish. You weren't trying to take something from me; you were trying to give it. You gave me my life, John," Harold said, turning to face him. "How can I possibly thank you for such a noble, selfless act?"

"You already have," John replied.

"How?"

"Your feisty escort."

"Grace."

"You moved on."

The hacker shook his head. "Physically, perhaps, but not emotionally. Grieving and sorrow pass with time, but guilt only subsides with forgiveness."

"You have nothing to feel guilty for."

"Don't I, though?" Harold turned back to look out the window and missed the brief grimace of pain that crossed his partner's face. "The purpose of the Machine was to save lives, but how many did it take over the years?"

"Causalities are a part of war, Finch."

"I would hardly call it a war, Mr. Reese."

"Two super powers were vying for supremacy. Most of the fighting was done in ones and zeros, but the outcome is still the same."

Harold frowned when he realized John was right. "It was never my intent," he said quietly. "And I should have never gotten you involved. Any of you."

"The choice to stay was ours. We all knew what the stakes were. Hell, you came right out and told me we'd likely end up dead."

"And that wasn't enough to change your mind?"

John closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts. The pain from his injuries was starting to intensify and it was getting progressively harder to focus past the deep, pulsing ache. "Death was never a deterrent for me. At that time, I would have welcomed it. You gave me my life too, Finch, and I was honored for the chance to return the favor."

The hacker was surprised to feel the immense weight he'd been bearing since the day of the attack slowly start to lift. _Can it really be that simple?_ He knew that it both was and wasn't, but hearing that John wasn't angry with him was a start in the right direction. He left the window and walked over to the bed. "When I hired you, repayment of any kind was never expected."

"I guess you didn't read the contract."

"John, we never had a contract."

"No, but I keep one with myself. It ensures I always pay my debts back; preferably in full."

While it sounded benign on the surface, Harold knew payback from someone like John wasn't necessarily a good thing. "Well, I think we can call it even now. No more of this…Mr. Reese? Are you all right?" he asked, having seen the younger man abruptly tense and his face screw up in pain.

John nodded, trying to keep his breathing even and slow. The mental barrier he'd put up against the building pain had broken and the resulting outcry from his injuries was overwhelming.

"I'm getting Ms. Shaw."

"No, Finch, it'll…" His protest dissolved into a grunt. The pain was increasing so fast it was starting to make him feel sick. As good as the soup Sameen had given him had been, he was now regretting having drank so much.

Watching the color drain from his friend's face, Harold decided he'd seen enough. He was about to turn for the door to look for help when the phone in his pocket began to vibrate. _Not now…_

He was halfway across the room when the vibration intensified to the point where it couldn't be ignored. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the phone, his thumb already feeling for the power button. He'd just found it when he caught sight of the number displayed on the screen. It had belonged to the old payphone they'd found bricked over in the abandoned subway tunnel they had been working out of after the destruction of the library.

Harold touched the accept button and lifted the phone to his ear.

 _"Hi, Harry,"_ the Machine purred in a very realistic imitation of Root's voice.

"I was wondering when you were going to contact me."

 _"I knew you needed some space for awhile. It's good to hear your voice again."_

"Likewise, but I'm afraid I can't chat at the moment. I need to find Ms. Shaw for…"

 _"She's still tied up with Grace. I've alerted Steve and he's on his way. John's past due for his next dose of medication. Sam wanted him conscious for your arrival and he was more than willing to go along with it."_

The hacker had returned to the bed. John's eyes were tightly closed and light sheen of sweat coated his face and neck. "Dr. Maxwell is coming, Mr. Reese. Is there anything I can do for you now?"

John slowly shook his head. He could feel the button for the morphine pump under his hand, but pushing it would do no good. The machine had locked when Sameen activated it and it wouldn't allow another dose to be dispensed for some time. Even if it had been available, the meager amount given would have barely taken the edge off, and right now he needed a lot more relief than that.

 _"Poor man. Others in his position would beg to be drugged out of their minds…but not John. Sam thinks it's because of some male ego thing."_

"And you?"

 _"He's a protector; a guardian. He knows when he's not out there, good people are going to get hurt. He understands he can't save them all, but being out of commission means he can't even be there to help a lucky few. I'm hoping his concerns will ease as the pool of assets grows and they begin to prove themselves, although with someone like John, it's hard to say."_

Harold frowned when he saw John abruptly tense and reached out, wanting to offer him at least some comfort, but pulled his hand back when he was unable to find a suitable spot that wasn't bandaged or braced. He had somehow missed this fact earlier and only now realized how much pain his well-meaning embrace must have caused.

 _"You can touch him, Harry. He's fragile, but he certainly won't break. And stop feeling guilty for the hug you gave him; it was an affirmation you both needed."_

He hesitated a moment longer before reaching out again and placing his hand gently on the younger man's shoulder. John didn't open his eyes, but Harold thought he felt him relax a little under his touch.

"Harold," Steve greeted as he entered the room. "Sam told me you were coming – it's good to see you again."

"Dr. Maxwell, thank goodness. Mr. Reese, he's…"

"Overdue for his meds, I know." He stopped at the bed and looked down at John. The man's tight jaw, haggard expression, and pale complexion were a familiar sight. "You look like you're in a world of hurt, my friend."

John cracked open an eye and regarded the doctor with a miserable glare. "You could say that."

"Is it your leg?"

"It's everything."

Steve took a quick inventory of the readouts on the monitors, pausing for a moment at the morphine pump. "You used this?" he asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

"Shaw did. I told her I didn't want it."

"I would have preferred for her to have just given you your maintenance dose over using the PCA pump, but…"

"I told her I didn't want them either."

"Yeah, I believe that."

"I'm afraid it's my fault, doctor," Harold began. "Ms. Shaw delayed his medication so he would be awake when I arrived. A thoughtful gesture really, but it obviously wasn't the best choice to make."

Steve frowned. "Did the PCA dose help at all?"

"A little."

"I may turn it up a bit – you should be getting more relief than that," he said, while adding ' _Not that you'll use it...'_ silently to himself. "All right. Can you hang on for another minute or two?"

The ex-op nodded and closed his eyes, easily slipping back into pain control mode.

"Doctor…"

"Don't worry, Harold, I came prepared," Steve replied, patting his shirt pocket. "She already told me what was going on."

Harold initially thought he was talking about Sameen, but then realized it had been the Machine that summoned him. "You know about…her?" he asked cautiously.

Steve went to the sink to wash his hands. "Your Machine? Yeah. Sam filled me in. I was a little skeptical at first, but then she spoke to me; she told me things that _nobody_ else would have known. It was freaky, but also amazing at the same time. Things make a lot more sense now than they did a month ago when I was pulled out of my cab. It's an incredible piece of technology, Harold. You should be proud."

"Proud…yes…" the hacker uttered. "It's something like that, I suppose."

"You hit some rough patches along the way, but it wasn't your doing," he said, shutting off the water and reaching for a towel. "The human factor is the most unpredictable element of any equation. Sociologists and psychologists spend their whole lives studying human behavior, and even they can't accurately predict how someone is going to react all the time. Technology like your Machine is better, but like us, it can still be fooled by the potentially erratic nature of emotions."

Tossing out the used towel, Steve spied the demolished cup that was in the trashcan. "Did Sam give you something to drink?"

"Some of your soup," John replied.

"Excuse me _?_ "

"It was good. My compliments to the chief."

"Flattery won't help. How much did you get?"

"Not much. I wasn't really hungry. Bear got most of it – he liked it too."

"Of course he did – he also liked the dead frog he found in the parking lot the other day." The doctor sighed and pressed a wrist to his forehead. "Did she at least liquefy it first?"

John nodded.

"How did it settle?"

"Hard."

"I imagine it did. Are you nauseous?"

"A little."

"Is there a problem?" Harold asked, listening to their exchange with mounting concern.

"There could be. Minestrone soup wasn't part of the dietary plan we had mapped out. He was supposed to be on clear fluids for at least a week before we tried introducing anything heavier. Now I have to decide if it's the soup or the pain that's making him feel sick."

The answer to his dilemma presented itself a moment later when another jolt of pain went through John's injured leg. He tensed as before, triggering a painful chain reaction that spread throughout his entire body.

Harold heard the younger man's muffled groan and watched as the last three fingers of his left hand dug into the mattress. "Doctor Maxwell, please…"

Steve reached into his pocket and took out the two hypodermics he'd brought with him. "Yeah, all right." He pushed the contents of both through the catheter set just beneath John's collarbone. "It'll take a few minutes to fully work. Can you stay with him while I go grab something?"

"Of course."

"You shouldn't have put yourself through this on my account, Mr. Reese," Harold said once they were alone.

"I should be able to handle it."

"And you will, in time. I understand your dislike of the medication; I didn't like the way it made me feel either when I was recovering from the…accident." A collection of random images from the day the ferry was bombed flashed rapidly through his mind. Although it was years behind him, there were still times when it felt like it had just occurred. The hacker shuddered.

"Maxwell's right, you know."

"About?"

"None of this being your fault. Samaritan wasn't yours."

"No, but the algorithm at its core was."

John could feel the potent cocktail of drugs Steve had given him slowly working its way into his system. "Building the Machine was a job for you, right?"

"Yes, but…"

"Did you know the government was going to filter the crimes it predicted, acting on some while ignoring the majority?"

"No – neither of us did," he replied, referring to himself and Nathan. "If we had, I doubt we would have taken the contract."

"Then you're no more responsible for what the government did to Samaritan as the guy who invented the gun is for all of innocent lives they've ended."

"That's a rather extreme way to look at it, Mr. Reese." Harold sighed. "To say I was 'just doing my job' feels like an excuse, an easy out."

"If you'd known what was going on and still turned your back on the Numbers, I'd agree," John said, looking tiredly up at his friend. "But you didn't walk away; you faked your own death, gave up everything you knew, and tried to fix it. That wasn't the easy thing to do, Finch, it was the _right_ thing."

"You should listen to him, Harold," Steve said from the doorway. "He just may know what he's talking about."

"Believe me, doctor, I'm listening; sometimes it just takes awhile for the words to process and sink in."

"That's respectable." Steve came over to the bed carrying a small, metered dosing cup full of a white liquid. "How's the pain, John? Is it getting any better?"

"Starting to," he muttered, feeling the first powerful wave of drowsiness from the medication.

"Good. I have something I want you drink and then we'll let you get some rest." Lifting John's head with one hand, he brought the cup to his mouth with the other. "Come on, one big swallow."

"What is it?" Harold asked.

"An acid reducer. It'll help neutralize the tomato base of the soup he drank."

John grimaced at the chalky texture of the mint-flavored liquid, but welcomed the cooling sensation it had on his aching stomach. Feeling another tug on his consciousness, he closed his eyes. He didn't want to go to sleep; this was the longest he'd been awake since being taken out of the coma and he wasn't ready for it to end. He was willing to endure the pain – bad as it was – if it meant more time with Harold before he…

John's eyes snapped open and he looked around, finding himself to be alone. _No…he can't be gone…not yet…there's still too much to…_ "Finch…?" At first there was silence, and then he heard the hurried, uneven footsteps coming across the floor.

"I'm here, Mr. Reese. What is it? What's wrong?"

"Don't leave…" He was fighting the drugs. He knew it was futile, but he had to make his friend understand. "…Not ready to say goodbye again…"

"I'm not going far," the hacker said. "I'm just going to make sure Ms. Shaw hasn't frightened Grace too badly. I'll be here for a few days yet, so we'll have plenty of time to talk." He could tell the younger man was losing the battle to stay awake. He patted his arm. "Get some sleep, John. Heal. God knows you've earned a rest. I'll be here when you wake up again."

Reassured by his associate's words, John surrendered to the drugs and allowed himself to be pulled into the pain free void of sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

A month passed. Harold and Grace remained at Egret's Haven. Although the subject of returning to Tuscany often crossed the hacker's mind, Grace had yet to bring it up, so he stayed quiet. They'd traded the cramped, temporary quarters they'd been given on the ICU floor for a small apartment located on the campus. It was far from the house he'd purchased in Italy, but for some reason it felt more like home.

John had been moved too. Once the medical team had deemed him stable enough to leave the ICU, he was transferred to the facility's main ward several floors up. The room was bigger, brighter, and offered more comforts than the previous one. A flat screen TV hung on the wall opposite the bed, a couple of plush recliners hugged the back wall, and a large tank stocked with a variety of coral and tropical fish bubbled quietly in the corner. The mountain view from the picture window was probably the room's highlight – especially early in the morning when the sun was just starting to rise.

He was slowly making progress. His right arm had been freed from traction and the left from its ridged splint. Soft braces provided the support the still mending bones needed and gave him nearly full use of both arms. His leg required more time in traction, but the fear of possible amputation had passed. Most of his bullet wounds and surgery incisions were fully healed, leaving behind fresh scars to mingle with the old. He was still tethered to an IV line, but had been freed from the monitoring equipment, central line, and oxygen.

Probably the biggest change – and the one John had anticipated the most – was in his medication. No longer did he spend the majority of his time drugged into oblivion. As Steve promised, the hard drugs were exchanged for less potent ones. Although they didn't completely dull the aches from his injuries, he found it a fair trade off for a clearer head. Between his friends and the Machine, he had learned about the planning and execution of his rescue, and his early days at Egret's Haven. They'd reiterated over and over just how close they'd come to losing him and how lucky he'd been.

He reached up and touched the St. Michael's medal around his neck. He wasn't fond of good luck charms; he'd seen men rendered virtually worthless on the battlefield if one was misplaced or destroyed. This pendant had meaning though, not only to him, but to its previous owner as well. After hearing how he'd come to possess it, he felt that discarding it would be to dishonor a fellow soldier.

The one drawback to consciousness was how quickly boredom set in. An active man by nature, John found being tethered to a bed to be frustrating. People – both his friends and medical staff – drifted in and out all day, but much of the time he was left to his own devices. His options for entertainment were limited to the TV, the laptop Harold had brought him, watching the fish, and looking out the window. A little time to reflect and relax was nice; too much and the mind tended to wander into places it shouldn't.

Enjoying the warmth of the morning sun that was streaming through his window, John woke from his doze when he heard the familiar click of toenails on the linoleum. He feigned sleep, tracking Bear's location by his rapid sniffs and snuffles as he made his way around the bed. He heard the dog pause, and then felt the mattress move as he stood up on his hind legs.

He picked up on Harold's broken gait next. The recognizable hitch-step came slowly down the hall until finally coming to a stop about half way into the room.

"Bear!" Harold whispered loudly, undoubtedly thinking the man in the bed was asleep. "Bear, down! Bukken! (get down) Let Mr. Reese sleep!"

John grinned to himself when the Malinois didn't move. Bear had known he was awake the moment he'd entered the room. He held out as long as he could, but once the dog started nuzzling his cheek with his cold, wet nose, he couldn't remain silent anymore. Opening his eyes, he reached up and gave the exuberant dog a scratch. "Hey, Bear."

"He woke you, didn't he?" Harold asked. "I stopped at the nurse's station for a moment and he got away from me. I'm sorry, Mr. Reese. I won't let it happen in the… "

"Don't worry about it, Finch. I was just resting my eyes." He looked over and saw that his friend was carrying a tray with a plate of toast and a covered plastic cup out in front of him. "They got you doing room service now?"

"The nurse at the desk asked if I would mind bringing this to you," he said, setting the tray on the bedside table. "She said you were asleep when she came around the first time and didn't want to wake you."

Motioning for Bear to get down, John began trying to prop himself up using his elbows. He grimaced when the awkward movement caused a sharp twinge across his chest – a not so subtle reminder that his recovery was going slower than he'd like it to be.

"Ah-ah. Let me help you, Mr. Reese. Remember what Dr. Maxwell said about trying to do too much on your own too soon?" Leaning over the bed, he helped the younger man sit up to the point that he was able and tucked a small pillow behind his back for support. "Is that comfortable?"

"Yeah," John replied, slightly winded from the simple endeavor. "Thanks, Finch."

"This isn't the time to let pride overshadow your needs. If you want something, John, please ask. I'll do everything I can to get it for you."

"Now that you mention it, some whiskey would be nice…"

"Perhaps I should have been more specific…" Harold began before spotting the hint of amusement in John's eyes. He gave the man a resigned look. "I'm afraid it's going to be some time before you're able to indulge in that particular pleasure again."

"Don't remind me," John muttered, reaching for the cup on his tray. He pulled off the lid and found a thick, brown liquid that smelled intensely of chocolate inside. _This is different…_

"The nurse said the kitchen sent up a type of protein shake for you to try. If it settles well, you can have another with lunch." He watched as John took a cautious sip. "Is it good?"

The younger man shrugged. "Needs whiskey."

The hacker shook his head. "Did you sleep better last night?" he asked, changing the subject.

"I got a few hours. Spent most of the night playing chess with the Machine. I think it cheats."

"Being able to calculate the probability of the success of every move combination does seem like an unfair advantage. Did you know that by the time each player makes four moves apiece, there are over two hundred and eighty-eight _billion_ position choices?"

"No. Did you know the Tin Man was packing heat in the Wizard of Oz?"

"That's ridiculous."

"Look it up."

Harold sighed – how easy it was to get distracted by trivial things when trying to talk to John about something serious. "Maybe over stimulation is your problem. You should try talking to Dr. Maxwell or Ms. Shaw. Maybe there's something they can prescribe to help you…"

"No more drugs," John said adamantly. "I spent the better part of the last two months asleep – I'm just not tired."

"I disagree; you were asleep when I came in a moment ago."

"I was just resting my eyes."

"And you think there's a difference?"

"Yes."

The hacker shook his head. There was no denying the man's tenacity and black and white way of thinking. "We're just trying to help you, Mr. Reese."

"And I'm trying to let you, it's just…difficult." John sighed and looked down at his meal tray. He'd graduated from an all-liquid diet well over two weeks ago, but liquids were still preferred. The solid foods they were giving him – rice, toast, pasta, and simple soups – were bland, boring, and virtually tasteless. He picked up a piece of toast and tossed it over the side of the bed. It'd hardly left his hand when Bear leapt up from where he'd been laying on the floor and caught it in mid-air.

Harold bit his tongue. He'd already shown disapproval about John's reluctance to ask for help and his insomnia; pointing out that giving Bear food that was meant for him would likely encroach on nagging territory. He turned to look at the fish tank instead and was immediately drawn into the underwater microcosm. He'd never been fond of fish, but he hadn't ever stopped to really look at them beyond the seafood department at the local market. He watched with interest as they wound their way lazily through the colorful coral and around the gracefully flowing anemones. A small crab emerged from beneath a piece of driftwood and waved its claws at him through the glass.

"His name's Rangoon," John said.

"Appropriate, albeit a little cruel." He was watching the crab bury himself in the rocky substrate when his phone rang. Glancing at the number, he accepted the call and brought it to his ear. "Heading out? No…no I can't think of anything else to add to the list…I don't know, let me see." He turned to the man in the bed. "Grace asked if there's anything you'd like from the store."

John considered his options for a moment. _They won't let me have whiskey, so…_ "Beer – something light like an IPA or pilsner would be good." It wasn't inebriation he was after; he just wanted something to help him relax that didn't come in the form of a needle or pill. After a shot of whiskey or a couple of beers, he could consider his insomnia problems cured.

"Mr. Reese said he'd like some root beer – the old fashion kind in the glass bottles if you can find it." Harold had smartly turned away, but he could still feel the icy glare coming from the man behind him. "All right…I'll call if I think of anything else…have fun and travel safe." He ended the call and returned the phone to his pocket.

"You know that's not what I meant, Finch."

"No, but it's all you're going to get," the hacker replied. "You still have a lot of healing left to do and I seriously doubt filtering alcohol from your system will help the process along. I don't see how you can drink hopped beverages anyway. They're all rather bitter and one dimensional if you ask me."

"You just haven't tried the right one." John took a drink of his shake, frowned, and set it aside. The thick liquid was just too rich, even for his high-octane sweet tooth. He looked up and saw that Harold had settled into the recliner closest to the window. "You don't have to stay, Finch. Go shopping with Grace if you want."

"To be honest, Mr. Reese, I'm not sure I would want to go even if I was invited."

"Invited?"

"This is a trip Grace and Ms. Shaw decided to make on their own."

John's eyebrows rose. "Shaw?"

"I was just as surprised as you when Grace told me of their plans." The hacker shook his head. "Never in my wildest dreams did I think the two women would get along – let alone bond. Neither woman is the overly social type, so I doubt the friendship will develop beyond companionable."

"They do have something in common."

"Oh? What's that?"

"Complaining about you."

If John hadn't been grinning when he said it, Harold would have been more offended than he was. "I'm glad they've found a common ground with one another; it was just unexpected."

"I don't know, Finch. A little shopping, maybe a manicure, a little girl talk over a couple hundred rounds at the shooting range…sounds like a great way to spend an afternoon to me."

"You're not serious about the shooting range, are you?"

John shrugged. "This is Shaw we're talking about."

"Yes, yes it is." Harold sighed. "I suppose marksmanship isn't the worst thing she could teach Grace."

"No. She could skip right to showing her how to make shivs out of objects women commonly carry in their handbags."

"Don't tell me these things, John. I like to think of Grace as innocent to our work, but she unwittingly became involved the moment that ferry blew up and I, well, the Harold she knew, died."

"You're still the same Harold she knew; you're just not as ignorant about what goes on in the shadows as you used to be."

"In some cases, Mr. Reese, ignorance is bliss," the hacker replied sullenly.

John watched as he shifted stiffly in his chair to look out the large window. His mood seemed to have abruptly changed at the mere allusion to his past. It was certainly something the ex-op could relate to. He knew how easily the demons of the past could be disturbed, but it was unusual for Harold to regress in such a way unless… _Unless something happened…_

Allowing his friend some time to think, he occupied himself by tearing the remaining slice of toast from his breakfast into small chunks and tossing them one at a time to Bear. "Something on your mind, Finch?" he asked once the last piece had been devoured.

"There is. I guess I forgot about it when the nurse gave me your tray, but our conversation just now brought it all back. It's a potentially serious matter I had hoped to discuss with you," he said, turning around to face him. "If you're feeling up to it, that is."

"You're going back, aren't you?"

"Going back? You mean to Tuscany? No, not yet. Grace hasn't brought it up and neither have I. As beautiful as the place is, and please, don't tell this to Grace, but I'm not even sure if I want to go back there. It's a nice village with friendly people and incredible ocean views, but it's quiet – too quiet. And you'd think after the chaos of the last few years a little peace would be in order, but…"

"Sometimes the silence can be deafening."

"Exactly." Harold sighed again and shook his head. "No, the matter I want to talk to you about may be even more important – more immediate anyway. Have you met Dr. Horn?"

John nodded. "He's the bone breaker stationed here."

"If by that you mean the orthopedic specialist, then yes. Last evening, he…"

"Gentlemen," Steve said as he entered the room.

"Good morning, doctor," Harold greeted.

"Morning," he replied, already making a visual assessment of his patient as he approached the bed. He was glad to see him sitting up, but didn't like the dark circles under his eyes. "I heard someone had another sleepless night; how are you feeling?"

"If I say like a million bucks, would you turn me loose?"

"If I believed you sure, but since I don't, I guess the answer's no."

"Don't you have a plane to catch?" the ex-op groused.

With John on the mend, Steve had begun to commute between New York and California. He returned to his teaching position at Stanford during the week and spent the weekends back at Egret's Haven. It was a rough schedule between the jetlag and hours spent in transit, but he was all in, determined to see John back to fighting fit, or as close as they could expect to bring him anyway.

"I'm on my way out, but I wanted to stop by and check on you before I left. I also wanted to introduce you to the physiotherapist you'll be working with starting tomorrow. She's on her way over right now – I think you'll like her." He eyed the meal tray on the table across the bed. "You ate your breakfast?"

"Some of it."

"I think you'll find that Bear consumed more of it than Mr. Reese."

"Really?" Steve asked, catching the annoyed glare John shot to the man seated across the room. "Why aren't I surprised?"

"I had the shake."

The doctor reached for the cup and looked inside to find about a third of the brown liquid to be gone. Knowing John's habit of "sharing" with the Malinois had been the main reason he'd instructed the kitchen to flavor the protein shake with chocolate instead of one of the other options. "John, we've had this discussion before…"

"So then you already know what I'm going to say."

Steve held John's unwavering gaze for a moment. The last time they'd had the "I'll eat when I'm hungry" conversation, the man had had an abscess growing in his belly that went septic and nearly killed him. This time, however, he knew the man was just being stubborn. "Well, your appetite is bound to come back once you start PT. In the meantime, just eat what you can and we'll continue to supplement you intravenously. How long have you been sitting up?"

"About fifteen minutes."

"Any pain across your ribs or chest?"

"A little, but not enough to stop."

"Good. Just remember your restrictions – you can sit up for thirty minutes and then it's back to horizontal for at least an hour," he said, ignoring the childish eye roll he got in response. "I've updated everyone on the adjustments made to your care plan, although little has changed except for the addition of PT. If any questions come up, Sam should be able to answer them. She's assured me that she's going to stick to the plan this time, but if you feel like she's pushing you…"

Steve paused when he remembered whom he was talking to. With John's "duty or die" attitude, it was doubtful that he'd speak up if he felt he was being pushed beyond his body's current limit. Steve turned and directed his instructions to Harold instead. "If you think Sam – or anyone for that matter – might be pushing John beyond his limits, please say something. He needs someone looking out for him especially since he's not likely to do it himself."

The hacker nodded. He knew Steve and Sameen didn't entirely see eye-to-eye when it came to John's care. It hadn't caused any major altercations yet, but he had seen the seasoned doctor set his jaw in frustration more than once while they were in conversation together. Her impulsive deviations from the plan hadn't hurt John's recovery up to this point, but at this stage, the man didn't need any more strikes against him.

"I'll do my best to ensure Ms. Shaw keeps her word," he replied. "She's not trying to undermine your authority, doctor. Her approach is just…well…her skills and education aren't necessarily as refined as yours…"

"He already knows, Finch," John interrupted.

"I know what she is and isn't. Sam told me herself a few days after she arrived. I've kept the true status of her credentials to myself; I see no need for the staff here to know what she is and isn't. She still knows her stuff and I trust her to make the right call if an urgent situation should arise. She's blunt, lacks empathy, and can be impulsive at times, but I frequently work with people like that back home. I think she cares in her own way and just wants to see John back on his feet as badly as he does himself."

All eyes turned to the door at the sound of a quiet knock. "Dr. Maxwell?"

"Hey, come on in," Steve called, beckoning in the newcomer. "Gentlemen, I'd like you to meet Brandy Dunn. She's Egret Haven's physiotherapist."

John's initial thought as Brandy entered the room was that she was young, looking to be not long out of high school, let alone the many years in college required for the job. She was petite, standing not much taller than five feet with a small, slender build. She was pretty, but made no obvious attempt to flaunt it. Her eyes – rimmed with stylish glasses – were a piercing green and her braided black hair hung nearly to her knees.

Steve pointed at the man in the bed. "Brandy, this is John. He's your next challenge, if you so choose to accept it, that is."

"I've never encountered a challenge I couldn't meet."

"You sound pretty confident," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "Good, you'll need it."

The ex-op offered his hand to the young woman. "Nice to meet you, ma'am," he said, surprised by the strength of the hand that reached out and gripped his.

"It's nice to meet you too. I've been over your file several times and I still can't believe you survived such horrific injuries."

"We all are, Ms. Dunn," Harold said, approaching the bed.

"And this is…" Steve began.

"Harold," she finished for him. "Dr. Horn told me about you. Have you given any thought to his offer?"

"Oh…no…not really…not yet anyway," the hacker stammered, giving John a dismissive gesture when he raised his eyebrows in question. "I will though."

"Give it some serious thought – I think you'd be amazed with the results." Brandy felt a bump on her leg and looked down to see Bear gazing up at her curiously. "And who's this?"

"Bear," John replied. "He's sort of a team mascot."

"Well, he's adorable," she said, giving him a rub.

"Rehabilitation really isn't my thing, so Brandy has agreed to draw up a plan that will work with your current limitations," Steve said, bringing the conversation back on track.

"Based on what doctors Maxwell and Horn have told me and the notes in your file, I have a pretty good idea of where you're at and what you need. I'll flesh out the rest of your rehab plan after your evaluation," Brandy explained. "Now, I've been told that you tend to be stubborn and have a rather high pain tolerance. Both of those _can_ be good, but I've also heard that you're not overly patient when it comes to yourself."

"At times."

"I can work with, but I need something from you in return." John had adopted a look that clearly showed he'd been expecting there to be a catch. "I need your honesty and your respect. When I ask if something hurts, I don't want a tough guy attitude, I want the straight up truth. We'll stop, try something new, and revisit the exercise another day.

"I need you to respect my plan and not try to do things on your own. I'm pretty good at reading people once I get to know them, but if you get frustrated, tell me. I have thick skin and I've been called every name in the book – you won't offend me if you get angry. This is a partnership; let me know if something isn't working and we can try to work something out.

"I also need you to respect yourself. You've been through a lot and it's unfair and unrealistic to think you're going to get better overnight. It's going to take time, hard work, and patience to overcome your limitations and heal. Is that something you can agree to?"

John hesitated. He was no stranger to hard work and confident he could handle the pain, but he knew that frustration would set in sooner than later. If his body still wasn't up to meeting the demands he placed on it when his progress plateaued, he knew honoring Brandy's request would be difficult. _But for the time being…_ "I'll give it my best shot."

Brandy smiled. "That's the best I can ask for. And speaking of 'best shot'…" She looked to Steve. "The x-rays on file show he still has a handful of bullets left in him. I saw the report from the surgery he had last week to remove the six that were in his arms and right shoulder, but the location of some of the remaining ones has me concerned. They shouldn't interfere too much at first, but once he starts really moving around and trying to walk…"

"He'll be scheduled for surgery once his leg comes out of traction; probably in another week or two. If all goes well, we'll be able to take out of the rest of them while we're in there." Steve saw the unhappy look that crossed John's face. "This should be the last time, John."

"Can't you just leave them in?" he asked. He already bore the scars from the rooftop battle; carrying around a few bullets would simply enhance the memories.

"I would if I could. Their proximity to nerve bundles and major blood vessels makes it too risky to leave them in place."

"You don't want them left in, John," Brandy affirmed. "Even if they don't bother you now, there's a good chance they will further down the road."

"Especially if you're having thoughts about trying to return to your former line of work. If you fell, got kicked, or even moved wrong, you could wind up paralyzed or rupturing an artery and bleeding out," Steve explained. "Once your leg is out of traction, we'll go in, remove the five slugs, and do any fine tuning that's needed to the initial repair job Dr. Horn did. If that part goes well, we'll go after the four in your abdomen. After that, you'll be metal free – well, _lead_ free anyway – the steel/titanium plates and screws are yours to keep. You'll rest and heal up for a week or so, and then Brandy will be free to do whatever she wants to you."

The physiotherapist rubbed her hands together. "I _love_ hearing those words…"

John rolled his eyes, but remained quiet, knowing that further comment would likely make things worse.

An alarm sounded; Steve looked down at his watch and cursed. "As much as I hate to leave, I have a plane to catch."

"I thought you enjoyed your job?" Harold asked.

"I do, but I'm not looking forward to the small mountain of mid-terms I need to grade. I love teaching, but the paperwork is…"

"Monotonous," the hacker finished for him, recalling his days spent as Professor Whistler. "You have my condolences, doctor."

"All right, Sam's in charge. If there are any questions, she should be able to answer them; if not, you know how to reach me. John – get some rest, eat, behave, and…" Steve said, turning to Brandy. "Good luck."

"Thank you, Dr. Maxwell. I'm sure John and I will get along just fine."

"Travel safe, doctor," Harold said as the man exited the room.

Brandy looked over at John in time to see him visibly sag. "You look like you're about ready for a nap."

"Not really."

Although he agreed with her with observations, Harold chose not to share his sentiment. He'd worked with John long enough to know that the more the man was pushed, the more resistant he was likely to become. He'd rest when he was ready and not before. "He _is_ at the end of his time he's allowed to be sitting up."

"Finch…"

"Doctor's orders, Mr. Reese."

"And good ones at that," Brandy agreed. "You're not used to sitting up; it'd be easy to overstress those muscles right now. Come on, we'll give you hand."

John reluctantly allowed her to help him lean forward while Harold removed the support pillows. He tried to keep the pain it caused from registering on his face, but it was difficult to ignore. A fiery stitch formed deep in his right side and intensified as they laid him back. By the time he was horizontal, it was throbbing in time with his racing heart.

"You okay?" Brandy asked, becoming concerned when he didn't respond. "John? Do you need me to get a nurse?"

His eyes tightly closed, the ex-op shook his head.

Unconvinced, she looked to Harold, who nodded affirmatively to her unspoken question. When she turned back to John, she was surprised to see his tight expression had eased and he was slowly starting to relax. This wasn't something she was used to seeing; most people were unable to regain control of their body's response to pain so quickly.

Now she understood why Steve kept saying that working with John would be a challenge. She thought he'd been exaggerating, but after seeing how John had handled a sudden flare of pain, she understood what he meant. She frequently relied on subtle changes in her client's expressions to gauge their level of stress and pain during a session. If he was able to mask the severity of his discomfort that efficiently, it was going to be difficult to judge when she was asking for too much.

"I'm going to let you get some rest," she said, deciding to forego the lecture on the definition of honesty. "I'll do your evaluation tomorrow. It's basically a range of motion test – nothing too strenuous. It won't take long, and it'll give me the information I need to finalize your rehab plan. Do you have any questions of me before I go?"

"None that you can answer," John replied.

"You want to know how long the rehab will take and how effective it will be," she said, knowing exactly what was on his mind. "Well, you're right, I can't answer those questions; not definitively anyway. Everyone is different. Your injuries were severe and it's going to take time for your body to come back to the way it was, if it even can.

"I don't know if this helps or not, but my rehab plans are known to be quite aggressive. I'll push you as hard and fast as I safely can. I've helped dozens of people recover from their injuries; yours however, are by far the worst I've seen. I'm confident I can help you; you just need to trust me and let me do my job. I'll be honest with you the whole way, but I need you to be honest with me too."

There. She'd managed to sneak in a dig about honesty after all. She knew he'd caught it too, as his hardened gaze locked onto hers for a moment. It sent a chill down her spine; not exactly fear, but caution. She'd barely met the man and she already sensed he was very different than the other clients she'd had in the past. Steve had said as much and was apparently right.

"All right. I've said my piece. I'll see you tomorrow morning – does eleven sound good?"

"Fine."

"Great. I'm looking forward to working with you, John. It was nice meeting you both. Have a good day, gentlemen."

"You as well, Ms. Dunn," Harold said.

"She seems nice," John said once they were alone.

"She's too young for you, Mr. Reese."

John gaped at him. He'd only said she seemed nice; that was it – nothing more. There was no fine print, hidden message, or anything else implied. He tried to think of how to convey this, but knew anything he said would likely make things worse. Then he saw the faint grin on Harold's face. "Oh, that's a good one, Finch."

The hacker's grin bloomed into a smile. It wasn't often he got to tease the younger man and the thunderstruck look on his face had made the effort worth the risk of angering him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reese. I couldn't resist. And yes, Ms. Dunn does seem nice. A little young perhaps, but she appears to have a good head on her shoulders. All kidding aside though, are you really all right, John? You went rather pale a moment ago."

"I'm fine – I just got caught off guard. Ribs take a little longer to heal than other places. So, what was Dunn talking about when she asked if you'd considered Horn's offer?"

Harold seemed to grimace. "It's what I began to tell you about before Dr. Maxwell arrived," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Grace and I were on our way to the apartment last night when Dr. Horn asked to have a word with me. I thought it might have had something to do with you, so I excused myself and joined him in his office. Needless to say, I was surprised when he started the conversation with 'I've seen your records and I believe I can help you'."

"How'd he get your medical file?"

"I don't know, but I have a pretty good idea who – or what – may have done such a thing," he replied, looking pointedly at the camera mounted on the wall.

"The Machine?"

"She knows I still struggle with the pain and limitations of my injuries. She also knows there's a surgery that can correct much of it."

"What'd you tell Horn?"

"I thanked him for the offer and said I'd think about it – what else could I have said?"

"Yes! Finch, this should be a no-brainer for a smart guy like you."

"It's not easy, Mr. Reese."

"The hell it isn't. What did Grace say?"

"I haven't told her yet."

"Why?"

"I wanted some time to think about it myself – and I wanted to talk to you first."

"You thought I'd try to talk you out of it?"

"No, but I knew you'd be more understanding of the reasoning behind my reluctance."

John raised his eyebrows – _I'm waiting…_

"I've always known the surgery was an option, I just never pursued it. I saw it as an attempt to bury the past. It's normal to want to forget the bad things that happen in life, but what happened that day at the ferry terminal was something I wanted to remember. I had blood on my hands – that of my best friend and complete strangers. The Machine _could_ and _should_ have prevented those deaths and where it failed, I felt responsible.

"The pain has also been a reminder that I got a second chance, while many others did not. They suffered; therefore it was only right that I suffer too. To do otherwise would have been to dismiss their deaths and dishonor their lives."

"You don't honor the dead by suffering, Finch, you honor them by living." John knew this sounded odd coming from someone who'd spent much of his adult life as a hired gun, but he was thinking about those who he'd cared for and lost. Harold was right though; he did understand why his friend was reluctant to improve the quality of his own life when he felt responsible for ending so many others.

"I was given a second chance once. I didn't want it at first; a monster like me didn't deserve it. I took it though, and I'm glad I did. I didn't do everything right and I repeated some of the same mistakes I'd made in the past, but sometimes it's easier to go back to what you know than it is to try something new. You can't fix the past by suffering today, Finch. All you can do is learn, remember, and try to do better the next time – if you're lucky enough to be given the chance."

The hacker sighed deeply. He'd expected to get the truth from John, but he had hoped it would be more blunt than rational.

"The last time you were given second chance, you used it to help others. Maybe this time you should use it for yourself."

"Is that what you're going to do?" Harold asked, turning stiffly to look at his friend.

"First chance I get I'm going back to work," the ex-op replied without a trace of doubt in his voice. "You could too."

"No. Whether I decide to have the surgery or not, my days working the Numbers are over. It's not a lifestyle I want to subject Grace to and besides, now that the Machine is an open system, my particular skill set is no longer necessary."

" _There's always room for one more, Harry…"_ the Machine said in his ear. _"The more, the merrier, as they say."_

"I can't…I just…can't." He had come seeking help for one problem only to discover another. He thought he'd made up his mind about retiring, but now he could feel the tendrils of doubt starting to creep in. He enjoyed saving lives and working with good people; it was the loss and constant danger he was tired of – and the feeling of inadequacy when he wasn't physically able to help his friends. Harold sighed and shook his head. _This is a concern for another time…_

"I was awake all night thinking about Dr. Horn's offer and the best I came up with is that it can be justified both ways." He took his glasses off and rubbed his tired, gritty eyes. "Like you said, this should be simple – I just don't know what I should do."

"Then give it some more time," John suggested. "Sleep on it some more, talk to Grace – you'll know when you've made the right choice."

 _I wish it would come that easily…_ He looked over at his friend. "You really do look tired, Mr. Reese. I should stop fretting and let you rest. I have some computer work that I'd like to get done before Grace and Ms. Shaw return anyway. I'll take Bear with me so he won't…" Harold was surprised when a laptop thumped down beside him. "This is yours."

"Can you use it?"

"Of course, but I don't want to disturb you."

"You won't. I'm just going to rest my eyes for a few minutes."

"You do realize there's more of you that needs to rest beside your eyes, right?" Harold asked as he limped his way toward the recliner.

"Those parts aren't tired."

"I see. Very well, but if I do bother you, please speak up."

As the hacker settled down to work, John settled himself too. Closing his eyes, he allowed the familiar, rhythmic patter of the keys to lull him into a doze. It was just like the old days – back when they had the library and the malevolent Samaritan was still an unknown. He couldn't recall how many times he'd fallen asleep after a hard mission, stretched out in a chair with the quiet clatter of keys in the background. It was a sound he'd come associate with safety, a sort of permission to let his guard down a little knowing he was among friends.

Harold looked up from his work a short time later. He could tell John was asleep just by the way he was breathing and his relaxed expression. He smiled, the moment reminding him of their early days together. It hadn't been uncommon for the younger man to pass out for a few hours after a mission. At first he'd taken offense to it, like he was boring him; then he'd realized it wasn't disinterest, it was trust. They'd started their partnership out on rocky ground and weathered a fair amount of turbulence, but their friendship had ultimately endured.

He watched Bear cross the room, chose a spot that was an equal distance between himself and his two handlers, and flopped down with a huff. He knew it wouldn't be long before the dog was asleep too, his legs and nose twitching as he actively pursued some imaginary prey. Returning his attention to the computer screen, he resumed his rapid typing, his own growing fatigue barely registering. Twenty minutes later, he was fast asleep himself.

Man and beast were still out cold when the women returned from shopping trip several hours later. They were aware that neither had been sleeping well and decided not to disturb them. Only Bear stirred when they walked by, waking just long enough to see who it was and thump his tail a couple of times on the floor. Grace carefully lifted the computer from Harold's lap, while Sameen quickly checked on John. When they were finished, they made a quiet retreat, leaving the unlikely trio to get the rest they deserved.


	13. Chapter 13

John sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a quiet grunt. The basic motion that used to be so simple was now awkward and painful. He gave the wheelchair and pair of crutches in the corner a reproachful look. This wasn't how it was supposed to be going. He should have been healing, getting his mobility back, and making forward progress. Instead he was still struggling, showing little improvement, and growing increasingly frustrated by the day.

He'd started PT with Brandy as planned. There wasn't much he could do while his leg was still in traction, but she worked on his arms and his uninjured leg as much as his limitations would allow. It was mostly stretching exercises combined with some basic weight work to loosen and slowly strengthen his damaged limbs. He was discouraged by how weak his body had become. He'd been in prime condition the day of the shootout; when he began rehab, he couldn't even lift a one-pound dumbbell without his arm starting to shake after on a few reps.

He'd been freed from the confinement of traction over two months ago. A week later, Steve and Dr. Horn had removed the remaining bullets and fine-tuned some of the hasty repairs made during his initial surgery. After taking some time to heal, his restrictions were eased, and his rehab began for real.

Brandy hadn't been exaggerating when she'd said her programs were aggressive. A typical forty-five minute session left him exhausted, sore, and more than willing to accept an extra dose of pain medication when it was offered. She worked him hard and he gave it his all to meet the challenge. He went quickly from her doing all of the work to being able to do most of the stretches and exercises himself. His progress was steady enough to be encouraging, at least until he tried to stand.

His first attempt – made a couple of week ago – had ended in failure. Brandy had positioned his wheelchair at one end of what looked like a twelve foot long set of low parallel bars. He'd done exactly as she'd instructed, using the bars to help push himself up on to good leg and then to steady himself while he adjusted to being upright for the first time in months. With Brandy and Sameen flanking him, John had put his right foot on the floor and slowly put weight on it.

The bolt of pain that shot through his leg was so sudden and intense, he would have wound up on his face if the women hadn't been there to catch him. The pain didn't stop when they resettled him in the wheelchair or even when they helped him stretch out on one of the exercise mats on the floor. The muscles and tendons from his calf, all the way up to his lower back had begun to spasm. It had taken a substantial dose of muscle relaxant and a rather painful deep tissue massage to get the overacting muscles to finally release.

The experience had left him sore, discouraged, and angry with himself for not having control over his own body. Sameen had told him to grow up, while Brandy offered encouragement and assurance that it was something they could work through. She'd given him a couple days to recover before starting over with a completely revamped rehab plan that focused more on building strength and breaking up scar tissue than it did flexibility. She added a recumbent bike to his routine and he gradually built up to riding several miles a day.

A week later, after he'd stretched, pedaled, and endured Brandy's excruciating massages, he attempted to stand again. There was still pain and his muscles were weak, but they held his weight and he was even able to take a few cautious steps. Every day he pushed a little harder and was able to do a little more. It wasn't long before he could stand and walk short distances unaided by the bars. He'd just begun getting his confidence back when Dr. Horn came by to check on his progress. Things hadn't been the same since.

After watching him move and doing some flexion tests of his own, Dr. Horn was pleased with John's improvement – although his updated prognosis certainly didn't reflect it. He'd said with almost apologetic certainty that he thought John would only get about sixty percent use of his leg back. He'd move with a pronounced limp and only be able to tolerate walking for short to moderate distances without the use of a crutch or cane. Stairs would be difficult, while running and fighting would be impossible. In other words, pack up the suit and oil the guns for storage – life as he knew it was over.

Brandy's prognosis – which she shared with him once the specialist had left – had been a bit more optimistic. She'd said she thought he could do better – _much_ better – like ninety percent or more better. He'd tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice when he replied, thanking her for her optimism, but saying that he found it hard to believe when he couldn't even walk to the bathroom without being supervised. She'd understood and said that was going to be changing soon. A few days later, she cleared him to make the trip to the bathroom and to the recliners without someone else being present. He'd wanted more, but bit his tongue. This newfound freedom had given him the excuse he'd been waiting for to do a little PT of his own.

John stepped into the house shoes he kept beside the bed and turned his attention to the recliners across the room. Using his arms as leverage, he got to his feet. He automatically began to shift most of his weight onto his left foot, but caught himself and settled his weight evenly instead. Pain shot up from his right calf, into his thigh, and through his belly and chest. He was ready for it, however, and was able to clamp down on it before it consumed him. Standing and the first few steps were always the worst; experience taught him that once he got moving, the pain would gradually lessen.

When he was certain he had his balance, John started toward the other side of the room, his eyes fixed on his goal. Six limp-steps later, he reached the recliners and turned to face the bathroom. Eleven steps brought him to the door, where he turned and looked toward the bed. Nine steps later, he was back where he started and he began the twenty-step circuit again. Five times, fifteen times, fifty times and beyond – over the last two weeks he'd been gradually building up his stamina and strength and improving the flexibility and function of his leg. He'd done most of the walking at night when he was less likely to be disturbed or be asked too many questions. Whenever a nurse did come by, he merely told them he was on his way to or from the bathroom or the recliners. With his history of insomnia, they bought it every time.

He'd lost track of the number of laps he'd made, but distance wasn't important – results were. Brandy and Steve both noticed how quickly he was improving, and Harold commented several times on how much easier he seemed to getting around. He'd been feeling pretty good about himself until several days ago when he realized his progress had stopped.

No longer improving by leaps and bounds, he'd begun pushing himself harder, longer, and faster – sometimes walking for hours without stopping to rest. He was sore, stiff, cranky, and exhausted, often to the point that Brandy would cut his therapy sessions short or call them off altogether. He was becoming increasingly frustrated with himself and short tempered with everyone around him. Words of encouragement left him feeling patronized and he was certain he'd permanently scared away several of the nurses.

After several laps, John paused for a moment at the bed. It felt strange to be doing his self-prescribed walking during the day. Normally he wouldn't risk it, but the chances of being discovered by anyone other than a nurse was slim. Brandy had called off his PT session after finding him sore, and ordered him to rest, elevate, and ice his leg. Harold and Grace – who were still residing in the on-site apartment – had gone out for the afternoon and Sameen was on her way to the airport to meet Steve. He'd been left with Bear, who was completely engrossed in destroying the large rawhide knot one of the receptionists had given him. In essence, he was alone. _And when the cat's away…_

He started to walk again, but instead of picking up the same triangular track, he went around the bed and over to the fish tank instead. He stood and watched as the finned, vibrant residents swam about, seemingly unaffected by the constraints of their diminutive world. They all had names and – according to the staff – unique personalities with likes, dislikes, and quirks. To John, they just looked like cold, unblinking, unfeeling fish, but in the mood he was in today, one could start doing parlor tricks and he wouldn't care.

A deep ache prompted John to shift the weight off his right leg. _Looks like Horn's prediction was right…it's impossible to recover completely from something like this…this can't be it though…it just can't be… Dunn said she was aggressive…maybe she's not aggressive enough…maybe…_

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Completely forgetting about his leg, John abruptly spun around to face the familiar voice and nearly wound up on the floor. "Son of a bitch…" he gasped, grabbing his now screaming thigh. "Shaw! I thought you were at the airport?"

"Maxwell's plane got delayed an hour – a big storm out in Detroit. Now, answer my question."

He looked from the recliners to the bathroom door, weighing his options. "I…"

"No – wait – let me guess: you were on your way to the bathroom, got lost, and stopped at the fish tank to get directions."

"Shaw…"

"Reese, you know you're not supposed to be up like this."

"It's my first time," he insisted, not entirely lying.

Sameen didn't believe him. "Really."

" _Maybe you should ask him how many miles he walked last night…"_

"Miles?" She knew John had heard the Machine's comment too by the look of shock that quickly turned to anger on his face.

"It's not what it sounds like…"

 _"I beg to differ. Our Man in the Suit has been quite busy the last couple of weeks. He's been pretty sneaky about it too; logging most of his work at night."_

"Work? What kind of work?"

Trying his hardest not to limp, John pushed past her and went over to the picture window to look out. It was a dismal, overcast day with low gray clouds to match his dour mood. "It's nothing."

" _He's got quite the routine…"_

Sameen listened as the Machine told her about her partner's endeavors. She wasn't surprised to learn he'd been doing something on his own, but the amount he was doing – especially in the last couple of days – was more than she'd expected.

 _"His distances have varied by day, but in the last two and half weeks, he's averaged just over eighty miles, twenty steps at a time. Last night's trip was his personal best at nineteen and half miles – he had to really push himself though – too much if you ask me."_

"That explains a few things…actually it explains a lot of things." Sameen shook her head. "Eighty miles – are you crazy?"

"The walking is working."

"It _was_ working. Now you're starting to backslide."

"I just need to push harder."

"Harder? Does Dunn know about this?" The sideways glance he shot over his shoulder told her everything she needed. "That's what I thought."

"Her program isn't aggressive enough," he argued. "I was getting results by walking, not by pedaling a bike to nowhere."

"And now you've plateaued, so you think pushing harder is the answer. Come on, John, don't be so thickheaded. You don't get a six-pack by just doing more and more sit ups – you have to vary your routine if you want results."

"Dunn hasn't changed anything in weeks."

"That's because you keep showing up sore and pissy with no obvious cause. She's not going to push you or move on when you can't even handle the simple stuff. She does have your best interests in mind, and, unlike you, knows what she's doing."

"I can handle this."

"Really? 'Cuz it's not looking like it to me. You keep this up and you're going to be here a _very_ long time."

"You're assuming I'm going to stay at all."

Sameen's eyebrows rose. She'd been waiting for this side of John to show up and was surprised he'd held out for as long as he had. "We're going to play that game, huh?"

"And what game is that, Shaw?"

"The 'things aren't going my way, so I'm going to smash a few heads and then run' game. You're so predictable, Reese."

"Am I?" He sounded perfectly calm and reasonable, but just below the surface his temper was simmering.

"Yep. Only this time I expect things are going to be a little different."

"And why's that?"

"Because you have no one to seek revenge on. Well, except maybe yourself. You put yourself in this situation when you chose to take Finch's place on the roof."

"I was doing my job – and I didn't expect to survive."

"I know – it's better to burn out, than to fade away. You had to play hero that one last time." His back was to her, but she could tell by his subtly tensing posture that he was getting angry. "So tell me, what happens next? Where are you going to run to this time? If it's anything like before, you'll go straight to the bottom. Who do you think is going to be there to catch you this time, John? Finch has already done it twice; do you really think he's going to do it again, especially now with Grace back in his life? I'm certainly not going to do it and Fusco…I wouldn't count on him being there either."

John shook his head. After all he'd been through, did he really have to be putting up with this? "You don't know what you're talking about."

"History repeats itself, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means your acting just like you did the night Carter bit the bullet." She saw John's head come up and his hands close into fists around the recliner he was leaning against. "You couldn't cope when things didn't turn out the way you thought they should, so you went off the deep end. It happened a time before that too."

" _Careful, Sammy…"_

Sameen heard the Machine's warning, but paid it no heed. She had John's attention and knew there'd be only one chance to get this right. "You remember that? When you chose work over your ex-girl friend? Over the chance to save her life?"

He was on her so fast, she never even saw him coming. One minute she was standing by the fish tank and the next, he had her pinned against the far wall with his forearm braced across her throat and shoulders and a knee pressed into her hip. What he still lacked in strength, he made up for in technique, and she knew there was no way she could hope to dislodge him.

"Don't you _EVER_ bring _EITHER_ one of them up like that again," he growled, his face mere inches from hers. "Or I'll…"

"You'll what, Reese? You'll kill me? Is that what you'd do? Would it make you feel better to have my blood on your…!" Her question was cut short when he leaned his weight against her, stopping just short of closing her airway completely. Rather than fear, Sameen felt her own temper flare, but it faded quickly when she saw the look in his eyes. Blazing, dark, and lethal, his anger was diluted by the unshed tears that rimmed them.

 _Aw shit…_ she thought, realizing for the first time that she'd probably screwed up. Unable to concede verbally, she broke eye contact and stopped resisting. John however, didn't let go. What she'd said – what she'd accused him of – had been like slamming a hammer down on an already crushed thumb.

" _John…please…let Sameen go... She didn't mean what she said – she was trying to make a point and took it too far,"_ the Machine pleaded in his ear. _"Please, John – don't do this. You know it won't make anything better…"_

He held her in place a moment longer before abruptly stepping back. Holding her throat and coughing, Sameen slid to the floor as John retreated into the bathroom and slammed the door. She was both surprised and relieved that their little tussle hadn't summoned a nurse. With the ex-op currently in the 'red zone', the last thing he needed was a well- meaning, unwitting target. Bear appeared at her side and began to lick her face and whine with concern. "Hey, it's all right – I'm okay," she assured him, hating to see the large dog so upset. "Sorry you had to see that, Fuzz Ball. It was totally my fault."

 _"Hey, Sweetie, I'm sure Bear appreciates your honesty, but I don't think he's the one that needs to hear it the most right now."_

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm going to go to Hell for this one…" Using Bear for leverage, she got to her feet. She was in the process of tugging up her collar to conceal any redness on her neck when a muffled thump came from the bathroom. With no idea what could have caused it, she bolted across the room and began to pound on the closed door. "Reese!" she shouted, no longer caring if all the noise summoned a nurse. "Reese! Open up! What's going on in there?"

Met with only silence from the other side, Sameen banged even louder. "Last chance! Open up or I'm coming in!" She was about to push her way through when the door abruptly swung open in front of her. Her eyes went from John's emotionless face to the red blossoms that were forming on the towel he had wrapped around his left hand. "What did you do?" she demanded as he pushed by her. "Reese!"

Ignoring her, he went over to the small closet and retrieved a faded gray sweatshirt from inside.

Getting nowhere with John, Sameen ducked into the bathroom. It wasn't difficult for her to find where he'd hurt himself – a deep, fist-sized hole had been punched into the wall above the toilet. "Okay, that's okay. We'll just hang a picture over the hole – maybe even one of Grace's – and no one will know. Hey, Reese, we need to talk," she said, coming back out into the main room.

"I have nothing to say," John replied, his words muffled as worked to pull the sweatshirt over his head.

"Well I do, so just listen. What I…where do you think you're going?"

"Out," he said, limping toward the door. "I need some air."

"Then open the window."

"I'm going out, Shaw. There's a bench in the garden beside the fountain – it's not far."

"Dunn hasn't cleared you for that yet."

"I don't care."

Sameen pinched the bridge of her nose. Given the choice between getting shot or trying to reason with a brooding John Reese, she'd choose the bullet almost every time. "Look, if you want to get chewed a new one by Dunn, fine, but will you just stop and listen to me for a minute?"

John stopped at the threshold, but didn't turn around.

"You've gotta know by now that I'm not good at this emotional stuff and while it's great for when the killing starts, it really sucks for interpersonal relationships. Sometimes what I want to say comes out all wrong or is misunderstood, but this wasn't one of those times. This time, what I said shouldn't have been said at all. I realize that now – it just came too late. I should have never brought up Carter or Jessica. It was wrong. And shallow. And stupid. And…I'm sorry."

She paused, giving him a chance to respond or walk away. When he did neither, she continued. "I wasn't happy when I came in and found you where you weren't supposed to be; I was angry to learn about your self-prescribed marching orders; but I was royally pissed to hear you say you're thinking about quitting.

"You're frustrated, I get it. You want to be out of here and for things to be back to normal. I get that, too, but John, it doesn't always work that way. When I first saw you back in the ICU, I didn't think there was a chance in hell that you were going to walk away from this. To hear what you went through and to see the extent of the damage that was done – I thought for sure I was looking at a dead man. But you proved me wrong – you proved us _all_ wrong.

"You've made a lot of progress. You're not where you want it to be, but you've got to be realistic about this. You have to accept that it's going to take time, hard work, and a load of patience before you can prowl the streets again. You also have to accept you need help – professional help – to reach your full potential."

"Horn said…"

"I know what Horn said – Maxwell shared his notes with me after your evaluation. We both think he's low-balling the number. Dunn is your best chance to walk out of here, Reese, but you've got to work with her. Don't jeopardize your chances or minimize the efforts made by those trying to help you by taking matters into your own hands."

 _"Dig deep, Sammy. I think you're almost there."_

"You did an incredibly selfless act that day. You offered your life to save the lives of many. You were rewarded with a second chance. Take it. You deserve to heal, John. You deserve to live."

She saw more than heard his reaction – a sharp rise and fall of his shoulders, like a huffed out breath or a shudder. It was difficult to say if she'd reached him or not, but she'd tried and for once, felt pretty good about what she'd said. _If only it had come out that way the first time…_

"Take…" John sharply cleared his throat when his voice wavered and broke. "Take Bear with you to meet Maxwell. I want to be alone for a while." With that, he started down the hall toward the elevators. He half expected Sameen to come after him, but was glad when she didn't. She'd said her piece and tried to make amends; now it was up to him whether to accept it or not.

When he reached the elevator bay, he pressed the call button and leaned against the wall. His whole body hurt, but the pain coming from his injuries was preferred over the heavy ache that was in his heart. _Joss…Jessie…Why'd she have to go there…?_

When the elevator doors opened, John limped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. As the car began its slow descent, he lifted the bloodstained towel wrapped around his left hand. The skin on his knuckles was broken and most of his hand was heavily bruised, but the bleeding had just about stopped. He'd be sore for a few days, but no major damage had been done. He knew punching a hole through the wall wasn't the most mature way to handle his anger, however the alternative – projecting his anger toward the person who'd caused it – would have been much worse.

The ex-op rewrapped his hand, closed his eyes, and let his head fall back against the wall. He felt utterly drained in both mind and body. He'd expected rehab to be difficult; what he hadn't counted on was the psychological piece. And it wasn't just the confrontation with Sameen. Over the last couple of weeks, he'd begun to feel isolated and trapped. Simply put – he wanted out. He wanted back on the streets, he wanted his guns, and – most of all – he wanted a purpose. _His_ purpose.

 _"I don't recall Sameen ever saying anything so sincere."_

John opened his eyes and looked at the small camera mounted in the corner. "You put her up to it, didn't you?"

 _"She knew she'd done wrong. I merely gave her a push toward admitting her mistake. She really does care about you, John."_

John snorted. "Hell of a way to show it." He shifted his weight and winced. After last night's marathon, his entire body was in a highly disagreeable mood. The constant aches, weakness, and bolts of pain were taking their toll. Normally he could tolerate such limitations and discomforts if he saw an end in sight. This time it was different. The severity of his injuries, the lack of progress, and the high probability of lasting impairment – they all had him wondering if the effort was even worth it.

"Why'd you do it?" he asked quietly. He expected the Machine to ask for clarification, but it seemed to know what he was thinking.

 _"You said it best yourself, John: 'sometimes one life – if it's the right life'. Just as Harold's life is worth something to you, your life is worth something to me. I've always known you were unique, but the day we made our deal, I learned you were so much more than that. When you told me you were willing to die for Harold, to take his place in a time of peril, I learned just how special you really were._

" _We have something in common – we both like to pay people back all at once. I wish I could have kept you from such horrific injuries or at least given you better odds, but then again, you've always liked to play things close. The escape plan Root and I put into place was my payment to you for looking out for my Harry all those years."_

John closed his eyes and tried to swallow past the lump of emotion that was forming in his throat.

" _I know things are tough right now, but I have no doubt that you're tougher. I promise it's going to get better; you've just got to hang in there. Have faith in yourself and in the people around you. No matter what happens, you'll always have a place and a purpose with me."_

The elevator rocked slightly as it came to a stop at the ground level. Feeling numb, John half stumbled, half lurched out of the car. He was grateful that the hall was empty; had someone seen him just now, they would have raised the alarm for sure. He slowly limped toward the T-junction at the end of the passage.

Like Sameen, he found the 'emotional stuff' to be difficult. The difference was that his emotions were suppressed rather than muffled. It was a necessary skill in his line of work and his ability to shut off completely had greatly enhanced his lethality. Valuable or not, his level of proficiency had come with a steep price. Lost relationships, a smoldering temper, and bouts of depression so deep he'd nearly taken his own life. And then there were times like this. Most people would take comfort in being reassured by friends, but he was left feeling overwhelmed, confused, and insecure.

There was really no reason to stop and read the directional sign on the wall at the end of the passage. He already knew the right corridor would take him to the garden from the times he'd been out with Brandy or joined Harold and Grace. It was a sprawling courtyard just off the east side of the campus, complete with cobbled walking paths, granite accents, and well-landscaped vegetation. There were raised flowerbeds, lush trees, and scattered topiaries sculpted to look like various woodland creatures. At the garden's center was a massive fountain with a pair of egrets made of stone. The impressive male was in the midst of his amazing courtship display while the female watched intently from the reeds. It was close enough should help be needed, and far enough to escape the sterile environment of the hospital.

Or at least it had been in the past.

After his altercation with Sameen and subsequent conversation with the Machine, John no longer felt the garden was where he wanted to be. It was a nice place and usually quiet, but it was far from private and solitude was what his aching heart craved. According to the sign, the left corridor would take him to the west trailhead and from there nearly forty miles of trails. The chances of meeting someone out there on such a dreary day was minimal and he could always slip into the woods if he heard someone coming.

John went left. He knew he was in no shape for hiking, but he didn't intend on going far. Just a mile in, maybe two – enough to separate himself from the facility and give him the time he needed to think and clear his mind.

 _"I know you guys are a little touchy when it comes to directions, but the garden is back the other way."_

"I know."

 _"John – where are you going?"_

"For a little walk."

 _"A walk? You told Sameen you were going to the garden. You're in no condition to be going any further."_

"Watch me." He was smugly pleased by the moment of silence that followed. Who knew even all-knowing super computers could be surprised, and by an inferior human, no less.

 _"I'm sorry, John. I know you want to be alone, but I can't let you take such a risk. I'm alerting Sam…"_

John jolted to a stop in front of the exit, ignoring the protest from his bad leg. A security camera was mounted in the corner overhead and he locked onto it with his icy gaze. "I don't want to hurt anyone, but I will if they come after me. Is that something you're willing to risk?"

" _That's an unfair position to put me in, John,"_ the Machine said indignantly.

The ex-op shrugged. "I'll be back in a few hours. I'd appreciate it if you covered for me."

" _John! Please don't…"_

The Machine's plea was cut short when John removed his earwig. Taking his phone from his pocket, he deliberately held the two devices up to the camera before dropping them into the pot of a decorative tree. With a final hard glare at the camera and the omniscient entity he knew was watching, he pushed his way through the heavy doors and out into the damp and dreary day.


	14. Chapter 14 A

Greetings,

This chapter is going to be a little different - it has three parts. Two are currently written and the third is still in the works. This first part is short, but I decided to post it so it wouldn't be so long in between updates. I hope you're enjoying this story - it's been an interesting one to write.

Bander

* * *

Harold leaned forward and frowned. Rain was streaming off the windshield of his car in a continuous sheet. The drive back from the city had taken longer than expected – the pop up storm having drastically reduced visibility and slowed traffic on the interstate to a crawl.

"I think it's starting to let up," Grace said from the seat beside him.

"Perhaps," he agreed, settling back against the seat. They'd spent the majority of the day wandering the halls of the art museum across town. There was an abstract exhibit that Grace had expressed interest in seeing, and he'd taken her as a surprise. "There's no doubt we need the rain, but the timing is a bit inconvenient."

"Didn't you bring an umbrella?"

"Yes, but it's in the trunk. If the rain doesn't let up soon, I'll get it for you."

"Harold…"

"There's no need for both of us getting wet. Besides, you have your camera to protect."

Both turned to look out the passenger side when a car honked as it pulled into the spot beside them. It was Sameen returning with Steve from the airport. They could see Bear in the back, his nose pressed against the foggy glass. The two women rolled down their windows a crack.

"Did you order this?" Sameen asked.

"No!" Grace exclaimed. "This is crazy – I didn't think it was supposed to start until after midnight!"

"That's what I heard too. All well – it'll save on showering later. We're going to make a run for it. You guys want to join us or are you going to wait it out?"

Grace turned to Harold. "Sounds like fun – you want to go for it?"

Intentionally getting soaked hardly sounded fun to the hacker, especially since the rain was cold and the suit he was wearing was dry clean only. He was powerless to resist though; the look of excitement in her eyes melted his resolve every time. "I don't see why not. It is only water after all."

She gave his hand a quick squeeze before calling out the window: "You go first! We'll be right behind you!"

Sameen said something back that made Grace laugh, but Harold couldn't make out what it was. Removing and pocketing his glasses, he was about to reach for the door handle when her phone began to ring.

"Oh, shoot, this could be really important," she said, looking at the number on the screen. "Harold, do you mind if I take this?"

"Not at all." He looked out to see the others sprinting across the parking lot.

"Go on ahead. I'll catch up in a minute," she urged as she answered the call. "Hello? Yes, this is she. Hi, yes, good, good, I've been waiting to hear back from you." Noticing that he was still watching her, she mouthed 'go!' and made a shooing motion with her free hand.

Despite his curiosity about her call, Harold opened the door and stepped out into the cold, driving rain. Holding a newspaper over his head, he started across the lot toward the building.

 _I wonder who the caller could be…?_ He thought, cutting through one of the landscaped islands rather than going around it. _She has every right to her privacy…but she said it could be important…_ really _important…she didn't sound apprehensive when she answered it…I suppose it could be something good…_

He skirted around a puddle only to wind up standing ankle deep in another. Without his glasses, telling the high ground from the low was next to impossible. Accepting that his custom-made Oxfords were likely ruined, he gave up avoiding puddles and simply splashed through them.

Oh…Maybe it's a curator from one of the galleries back in Tuscany? It would be great if she got the display space she applied for…her work would be seen and perhaps even purchased or commissioned…but it would also mean going back to Italy…and to the quiet…I don't think I want to do that…or can…

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that it had been a curator on the phone. There was no one else it could possibly be. Discarding the ruined newspaper in the trash, Harold schooled his features as he pushed through the first lobby door, not wanting to reveal his newfound dismay until his suspicions were confirmed. He opened the second door and stepped into the reception area just as Bear decided to shake the water from his fur.

"Sorry, Harold," Steve said sheepishly as he let go of the dog's collar. "I tried to stop him, but he was too quick."

"It's all right, doctor," he replied, wiping the vaguely dog-scented water from his face with his wet sleeve. "Once Bear decides to do something, it's virtually impossible to stop him." He retrieved his glasses from his pocket and slipped them on. With the world back in focus, he spotted Sameen by the interior entrance, her phone against her ear and an unreadable expression on her face.

"Some downpour, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was a rather unpleasant surprise," Harold said, noticing that the front desk was unoccupied. "The receptionist is…?"

"Gone. It's after five – Sam used her keycard to unlock the doors. Probably a good thing given all the water we tracked in."

The hacker looked from the puddle on the floor to the walls and up to the ceiling – all of which had been sprayed when Bear shook the water from his coat. "Oh dear…"

"Maintenance will get it," Steve said, spying a 'wet floor' sign by the inner door and setting it out.

"I trust you had a good flight?" Harold asked as he stripped off his sodden sport coat.

"Except for the fuel issue that grounded us in Atlanta for a few hours, yeah, it wasn't bad. How was the museum?"

"Good, good. The exhibit was good," Harold said a little too enthusiastically. "Grace has wanted to go since she saw the ad online. It was a blend of realism and abstract – sort of a new age, hybrid style. Not something I would have gone to on my own, but having her around to offer insight…"

"You were bored out of your mind, weren't you?"

He glanced furtively toward the door. "Through most of it, yes, I'm afraid I was. If it hadn't been for Grace's enthusiasm, I would have called the trip a disaster. She had to take a phone call, but I'm sure she'd be delighted to share the pictures she took with you when she returns."

"Oh, I don't know about that…"

"Sorry to break up the reunion, boys, but we've got a problem – a _big_ problem," Sameen said as she rejoined them. "Reese is gone."

"Gone?" Harold felt his stomach plummet to his knees. "My dear God. He was doing so well, I-I can't believe this – what changed? Why didn't anyone…?"

"Finch, he's _missing_ , not dead," Sameen clarified, hurrying to correct her poor word choice before the man could dissolve into a complete meltdown. "Although he'll probably wish he was after I get through with him."

"John's missing? How's that possible?" Steve asked.

A flicker of something that might have been guilt crossed her face. "It's a long story. Let's just leave it at that I said some really stupid things and he got upset." She shoved her matted bangs off her forehead. "He told me he was just going out to the garden, but the Machine said he headed for the western trail system instead."

"The trails? Ms. Shaw, Mr. Reese wasn't even supposed to be out of his room without supervision," Harold said, having somewhat recovered from his scare.

"Yeah, well, after he put a hole in the wall, I wasn't about to stop him. The Machine said she tried, but he threatened to hurt anyone that got in his way. And he was pissed off enough to do it too."

Harold was more curious than ever as to what she'd said to John. He knew the younger man had a dangerous temper, but he usually kept it under tight control. There were a few things, however, that would set the normally rational man off faster than a spark on kindling. "Why didn't the staff alert us to Mr. Reese's absence?"

" _They didn't know,"_ the Machine said, speaking through Sameen's phone so they could all hear. _"In fact, they_ still _don't. John asked me to cover for him, so I did. According to the computers, he's been in PT for the last three and a half hours. I'm sorry, Harry. I'm afraid I may have made things worse."_

"How's that?"

 _"John is…"_ the Machine paused as if searching for the right word. _"Sometimes I think he receives bad news better than he does reassurance."_

"Can't your Machine track him?"

" _I wish I could, Steve. John dumped his phone right before he left the building. The last I saw of him was on the security camera mounted just outside the trailhead. I've been monitoring the game cameras posted along the different trails, but there's been no sign of him."_

"He's smart enough to go around them, or he just went off the marked trail entirely," Sameen speculated. "He was sore and not moving well when he left; I doubt he got very far. Although this is ex-GI Commando we're talking about; he could be almost to Canada by now."

"I should hope not," Harold muttered, concern for his friend rapidly mounting. "But regardless how far he got, we have to find him."

The door swung opened behind them. "Harold! Harold!" Grace exclaimed as she hurried into the lobby. "I have the most amazing news! I just spoke to…" She stopped and her smile faded when she saw the apprehension on everyone's faces. "What's wrong?"

"Mr. Reese is missing," he told her. "According to the Machine, he's gone out onto the trails."

"What? Why?"

"The why isn't important right now," Steve said, giving Sameen a pointed look. "But finding him is. It's going to start getting dark soon, and with it comes the potential for more bad weather. He's already been through one downpour, I'd rather he not go through another."

"The trail system here is extensive," Harold began. "How do we even know where to start?"

"We know he went in at the west trailhead. That gives us a starting point and narrows the possibilities of where he could have gone."

Sameen snorted. "It might not narrow the search as much as you think, Doc. That's the biggest trail network on the reserve."

"Some are pretty technical too," Grace added. "During the day you can pick your path, but getting around in the dark would be difficult."

Steve's eyebrows rose. "You know the trails?"

"We've hiked some of them," Sameen said. "And she's right – the terrain gets pretty rough in places. If Reese was at a hundred percent, I doubt he'd have a problem, but the way he's moving now…" She shook her head.

Harold frowned. "How many possible trails are we talking about?"

"The main trail goes in for a ways before it starts to branch off. We saw at least a dozen paths in just the first mile alone. Some loop back around further up, but most go on for miles and link up with other trails within the network."

"All right. I've heard enough talk." Sameen had taken up Bear's leash and was preparing to leave. "You guys can stand around and chat as long as you want, but I'm going out to find John."

"Sam…"

"We're burning daylight, Maxwell."

"Yup. And we're going to burn a little more too. We have a lot of ground to cover and a limited amount of time to do it. We need a plan in place if this is going to work."

"I've already got one."

"Do you now?" The doctor crossed his arms over his chest. "Care to share it?"

Sameen sighed impatiently. "I'm going to take Bear out to the trailhead, let him sniff around, follow him straight to Reese, and drag his sorry, sulking ass home. Is that good enough for you?"

"The first part is," Steve replied, knowing the rain would have likely washed away any physical trail John had left behind. Enough of his scent, however, most likely had remained. "But the rest could use some work. I think you've caused John enough grief for one day. You're not going to be the first person he sees coming up the trail."

Harold took an involuntary step back. Talking to Sameen in such a way was like running with scissors; you might get away with it once or twice, but eventually you were going to get hurt.

Sameen leveled her gaze with the doctor, a silent challenge to his bold statement. "I made a mistake. I admitted to it and I tried to make it right. You're still trying to punish me like I'm a child?"

"This isn't about punishment, Sam," the doctor insisted. "It's about respecting John and his needs right now. Whatever you said to him was upsetting enough to drive him away…"

"More like he _ran_ away…"

"…And I doubt very much that he needs you to accost him for a second time."

"I apologized."

To Steve, her statement came out sounding like it was an accomplishment, and he knew that for her it probably was. "That's a good place to start," he said. "Now show John you're sincere by giving him some space. It's still up to him whether he's going to accept it or not."

Anger flashed in her eyes. A moment later it was gone. "You can't expect me to sit idle while he's out there."

"I don't," he replied, noting the barest hint of surprise that crossed her face. "We're just going to do this my way."

"And that would be?"

Steve turned from Sameen to address the others. Both Harold and Grace wore the same look of guarded bewilderment on their faces, almost like they didn't believe what they'd just seen. "Take fifteen minutes. Change into some dry clothes, sturdy shoes, and rain gear if you have it. We'll regroup briefly and then Harold and I will take Bear out to look for John. Sam, you and Grace will wait here. We'll give you a call when we find him and go over the plan for getting him home."

"You know damn well he's going to need help after having been out there for so long," Sameen argued. "Why don't we just all go?"

"Because John may not be mobile and if that's the case, we're going to need a backboard or a stretcher, and I don't feel like hauling either one around the woods on a maybe. I also want someone here that's knowledgeable in case he returns and our paths don't cross."

" _Go with it, Sweetie,"_ the Machine said in her ear. _"It's the best way. John's on the defensive right now – even if you went to him completely non-confrontational, there's a good chance he won't listen. Let Steve and Harry run interference. You'll know when you can approach the Big Guy again._ _I'm proud of you, you know. I doubt that even just a year ago you'd be feeling such remorse for what you said to John. It's a big step. My little Sammy is growing up."_

"Yeah, well your Little Sammy is going to throw up if you don't…" Sameen stopped when she saw the others were looking at her funny. She cleared her throat and turned to Steve. "Have it your way."

"Terrific," he said, turning on his heel and heading toward his on-campus quarters. "See you all back here in fifteen minutes."

"Come on – I suppose you want to be dried off too," Sameen muttered as she collected Bear's leash.

"Ms. Shaw…"

"Don't say anything, Finch," she said, leading the dog toward the same door Steve had disappeared through. "I already know it's a hell of a lot easier to make a mess than it is to clean one up."

The hacker frowned. He wasn't used to hearing the tone of defeat in her voice. _Time and experiences have the power to change a person…I just didn't expect it to be quite so profound…_

"Harold?"

He jumped when a hand closed over his shoulder. He turned to find Grace watching him with a quizzical look. "Sorry, my dear. I was lost in thought for a moment. Let's walk and talk, shall we? Fifteen minutes isn't much time." He reached out and linked his arm with hers. "You're not even wet!"

The astonishment in his voice made her smile. "I told you it looked like the rain was letting up. By the time I was through with my call, it had stopped."

"That hardly seems fair," he groused, though not entirely serious. "You said you had some news to tell me?"

"Later. Finding John is more important right now." She sighed, gazing out at the cloudy day through the floor to ceiling windows that lined the hall. "That poor man. I can't imagine what Sameen said to him. I know she can be crude and honest at times, but…"

"The filter between Ms. Shaw's mind and mouth doesn't always function properly. She seems genuinely sorry – guilty even – which is rather unusual of her. Unfortunately Mr. Reese doesn't forgive and forget as easily as some. Whatever may have transpired between the two of them – I just hope the damage can be repaired."

"Do you think John's all right?"

"He's usually quite good at looking after himself." He had tried to sound confident, but was unable to completely keep the concern from his voice. "I'm sure he's fine."

The couple fell into a companionable silence as they made their way across the campus. It wasn't until they'd reached their apartment that Grace spoke, raising a question that Harold had been pondering himself.

"Do you think John would…I mean…he wouldn't do anything…foolish…would he?"

He wanted to ask her what could be more foolish than venturing out into the woods mere weeks after being released from traction, but he didn't. He knew what she meant and foolish was a polite way to put it. Sameen had said John was upset enough to put a hole in the wall. Added to his frustrations of a difficult recovery and the uncertainly of his future, it might have been enough to push the younger man beyond his limits.

Harold reached into his pocket for his keys. "No. I think Mr. Reese just needed some time alone. We all get that way now and then. I'm sure he's fine." He cringed as he turned away to unlock the front door, realizing he had repeated himself. He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or to keep from worrying Grace further, but either way he was pretty sure it was falling short.

 _And, truth be known, it's not the foolish behavior I'm concerned about…_ he thought as he opened the door and stepped inside. _It's the irrational, irrevocable ones I fear the most…_


	15. Chapter 14B

A haunting cry startled John awake. With sleep-blurred eyes, he looked around at the trees and large rocks, totally disoriented. The eerie cry came again and he tried to move, triggering a fiery pain in his right leg. He tensed, causing the pain to rapidly spread throughout his entire body. All at once he remembered where he was and why he was there.

John cursed and dropped his head back on the tree he was laying against. Once more the mournful cry that had woken him drifted through the trees. _A loon…_ he thought, recalling the pair of large birds he'd seen paddling around in the river as he had walked past.

He scrubbed a hand across his face and sighed. What a hellish day. After being confronted by Sameen, he'd left Egret's Haven and gone out to the trails with the intent on going as far as his body would take him. He'd followed the manicured main trail for a while before turning off onto a narrow deer path. His body had protested the more difficult terrain, but the challenge had kept his dark thoughts from becoming any darker.

He didn't know how far he'd gone before the well-worn path joined up with one of the marked trails. It had followed the bank of the river where he'd seen the loons for a ways and then divided at a fork. To go right was to follow the turtle; to go left was to follow the bear. John went left.

The trail led him up a gradual slope through the woods. There were several sets of stairs made from long slabs of stone to negotiate and his bad leg nearly buckled on him a number of times. The hill finally leveled off at the opening of a large field. John was barely a third of the way across it when it began to rain. It started with a few large droplets and quickly became an icy torrent, soaking him to the skin in a matter of seconds. Ankle deep in standing water and hardly able to see, he'd sloshed his way across the flooding field and back into the woods. Even the trees offered little protection from the driving rain and there was nothing he could do except forge on.

The downpour ended what felt like an eternity later. Mist rose from the ground and the air smelled earthy and clean. The standing water on the trail quickly drained away, but the paths remained wet and slippery. John pushed himself onward, using trees to help steady himself in the mud. He had begun to slow down by then and his body was subtly warning him that he was reaching his limit.

John found himself on the ground a short time later, not knowing if his bad leg had given out or he'd slipped on the wet rocks. He'd landed hard on his right side. The pain was bad enough to gray the edges of his vision for a minute, but nothing felt broken. He'd half crawled, half dragged himself off the trail and into the crotch of the tree where he'd promptly passed out. He had no idea how long he'd been there, but now thanks to the loon, he was once again awake and fully aware of the mess his life had become.

A violent shiver coursed through his body, rattling his teeth and causing his aching leg to flare. He tensed before he could stop himself, intensifying the pain and causing it to spread. He shivered and tensed again. And again. And again. By the time he got himself back under control, his injuries – including those he had long thought healed – were on fire.

 _Will I ever learn?_ It was a rhetorical thought, but his subconscious was more than willing to supply the flippant "probably not" response.

Breathing hard and sweating despite his chill, John closed his eyes and tried to relax as the intense waves of shivering continued. He was cold, too cold; his rain soaked clothes were literally sucking the warmth from his body. He held his shaking hands up in front of his face and flexed his fingers. The movement was sluggish, the joints stiff, and except for a dull ache coming from the minor injuries he'd gotten from putting his hand through the wall, there was no feeling in them whatsoever.

 _Hypothermia..._ The ex-op uttered a harsh, humorless bark of laughter. _To survive a bullet storm and a missile strike only to lose it to exposure on a nearly sixty-degree day…_ It was just ironic enough to happen.

 _I need to get up…_ he thought, knowing his chances would be better if he was able to get on his feet. _I need to move…_

John pushed himself up on his trembling elbows and looked down at his legs stretched out in front of him. He tried flexing the left one first. It was stiff from the cold, but responded easy enough, bending first at the knee and then the hip. His right leg was a different story. The slightest attempt to move it caused an inordinate amount of pain. Enduring it wasn't the issue; whether or not it would hold his weight was.

The strength in his arms gave out and he dropped back against the tree with a frustrated grunt. He wasn't giving up, but he needed time to reconsider his options. "This was a bad idea…"

He was reminded of the close call he'd had the previous winter. The cold case he was working had gone bad; he'd wound up shot and stranded out in the subzero temperatures with no way to call for help or get warm. He owed his friends for the save. Without their persistence and good sense to know something was wrong, he would have frozen to death behind the wheel of a car that wouldn't start.

There was no danger of freezing to death this time, although the thought of suffering a hypothermia-induced heart attack wasn't much better. There was no noble reason for him to be in this predicament – there were no Numbers to save, no maniacal super computers to shut down, no crooked cops or dirty politicians to expose. And the apparition of Joss Carter certainly wasn't going to appear and comfort him.

 _Carter… Jessie…_ John felt an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his inadequate body temperature. _If I had thought giving my life would have spared yours…_ "I would have gladly given it…"

Every time he thought he was finally starting to heal and move on, the old wounds would be reopened. Sameen's cruel comments, however, had taken things further. Not only had she torn open the wounds, she had packed them with salt and closed them with razor wire. To speak of Joss's death so callously and accuse him of choosing his work over saving Jessica had been a low, vicious blow. _Could_ he have killed her when he'd had her pinned against the wall? Yes. _Would_ he have killed her if the Machine hadn't intervened?

"Possibly…" he uttered. The sentiment wasn't pretty, but the truth seldom was. He did give her credit for apologizing, although after what she'd said, it felt like being offered a band-aid to treat a major hemorrhage.

Sameen had been fundamentally right about one thing. He did have a hard time coping when things – _certain_ things – didn't go as planned. It wasn't because he was spoiled, egotistical, or immature – or at least not in the literal sense she thought it was.

He'd never had much in life – initially by circumstance and later by choice. Material items had little appeal and he'd come to prefer life as a loner to the complications of a relationship. He took seriously the few things and people he did value, and took it upon himself to protect them fiercely from harm. Failure to do so was taken personally, and his reaction was often irrational. Whether from bad luck, fate, or some ethereal form of punishment, he'd lost much of what he'd come to care for. Each time it happened, his ability to cope became more tenuous.

What Sameen called "going off the deep end" was his strategy for dealing with an important loss. It had changed over the years, evolving from feelings of simple anger and self-loathing to withdrawal and the need to escape. Revenge didn't come into the picture until after his time with the CIA. It was there he learned to use the emotions he'd suppressed for most of his life to release the monster that he'd suspected had been within him all along. He never liked having to kill, but the monster had made it easier when he had no choice. It was a side of himself he had every intention of leaving behind. Unfortunately, no one had warned him that once the monster had been freed, there was no putting it back.

As idealistic as it sounded, revenge was rarely gratifying. When the high from the hunt was over and the thrill of the kill was gone, you always wound up back where you began. Revenge wouldn't return what you'd lost; it wouldn't comfort you or tell you everything would be okay. Many times it left you feeling even worse than before – the anger that was previously directed toward your target usually coming back on yourself or worse, someone that was just trying to help. It left only one option – escape.

Running away was even less productive than revenge. It was irrational to think you could better things by running. It wasn't a physical threat to be escaped; it was an emotional one that would follow you wherever you went. Alcohol gave the illusion of helping, but it was really only a patch. The wound continued to fester and would be even more painful once you returned to your senses. That's when death – the ultimate escape – began to look less like the coward's way and more like the _only_ way to find peace.

 _And that's about where I am right now…_ John thought, taking to the idea like a starving man takes to food. To be freed from the guilt of his failures, the ghosts of his past, and the burden of his losses sounded almost too good to be true. Really, what more was there to life that was worth sticking around for? There was little chance he'd ever be able to work again and even if he retired, love for him was just too risky. To move on to whatever was next or to simply fade into oblivion – either option sounded better than where he was now. _I could wait for the hypothermia to get me, or I could just…_

His thoughts were interrupted when the bushes beside him began to move. It started as a slight rustling in the underbrush and progressed into a full-blown sway. Something was coming. He knew there was little to fear from the native animals of New York, but he was compromised, virtually defenseless, and…

 _And I don't care…_

To affirm the point, he closed his eyes. He made no effort to get away or find a weapon. If the animal that emerged from the scrub turned out to be a hungry black bear or cougar, at least he'd go out with a purpose – even if it was as food. Despite the cold, the pain, and the shivers racking his body, John relaxed. He was content just to let whatever was about to happen, happen. If the end came, he would embrace it.

The rustling in the bushes became more intense just before it stopped completely. Would the end to his pain come from the throat tearing bite of a cougar or the razor-sharp claws of a bear? John held his breath and waited. A purring trill followed by a few quiet peeps broke the silence. Neither had the bloodthirsty quality of the apex predator he had envisioned coming out of the bushes. He opened his eyes. Standing beside him was a hen turkey and her four young poults.

The ex-op felt many things at that moment, but what surprised him the most was the amount of relief that went through him and the complete lack of disappointment. Less than thirty seconds ago he had been ready to die – _wanting_ to die – and now he was grateful that he hadn't.

 _Shaw's right…I am predictable...pathetic too. When the going gets tough, the tough get going, but when life gets tough, I run…_

 _You do more than run, big fella – you self-destruct…_ The thought was his own, but the voice he heard in his head was Sameen's. _When are you going to wake the hell up and realize that life's a bitch? It's unfair, ugly, and pointless. We keep going though, and you know why? There's only one thing sadder than a life lost and that's a life wasted…_

John frowned. The last part sounded more like something Harold would say, but he was still hearing Sameen. It was the foundation of the work he'd spent the last five years doing – saving lives one at a time; lives the government knew were in danger and chose to do nothing about. Samaritan had changed all that, or at least had tried to. Both it and its corrupt handlers had underestimated the full power of the Machine and the tenacity of its assets.

 _And maybe…just maybe…you're not as ready to die as you thought…this time anyway…_

He hadn't considered this, at least not on a purposeful level. Death was like an old friend – dependable and always there. It was also a nemesis – whispering in your ear and tempting you with instant reprieve from pain, guilt, and sorrow. The downside was that it was permanent; there were no do-overs when your time came. And now, the more he thought about it, the more he believed that it wasn't a matter of accepting death, but of death being ready to accept you.

John pulled in a deep breath of the humid air, ignoring the protest from his freshly bruised ribs. He held it for a moment and then released it with a shuddery sigh. The turkey's head came up and her feathers pulled close to her body. She gave a couple of high-pitched "plucks", rallying her poults to her side. She looked around, searching for the source of the sound that had startled her. John stayed still and eventually the large bird began to relax. After giving her feathers a mighty shake, she resumed showing her poults the fine art of foraging as it nothing had ever happened.

He was glad the turkeys had stuck around; they gave him something to focus on beyond himself. As he watched the bumbling antics of the young birds trying to mimic their mother, the misery of the day seemed to lose some of its punch. It was a much-needed chance to refocus, decompress, and allow his overstressed mind to reboot.

John started to feel drowsy. Not a relaxed or bored sort of drowsy, but a bone-tired weariness that rapidly consumed him. It was as if the hell of the last few months had finally culminated and his body realized just how exhausted it was. He tried fighting against it with little success. He thought he was only shutting his eyes for a few seconds, but the shifting quality of the light indicated he was dropping out for longer.

It was the rapid "pluck-pluck" of the mother turkey that woke him completely. He opened his eyes in time to see her hustling her poults into the bushes, continuing to broadcast her warning call as she went. It wasn't clear at first, but then he heard something big moving further down on the trail. From his vantage point, he would see whatever it was before it saw him – if it even saw him at all.

He reached down and drew a large stone into his lap with stiff, numb hands. This time it was different. This time, if the bear or cougar he'd been hoping for earlier made an appearance, he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

John sat back and braced himself against the tree, ready to take on whatever came around the corner. Even the threat of danger, however, couldn't keep the overwhelming sense of drowsiness away for long. He tried everything he'd been taught to keep alert, but apparently the same techniques used to resist drugs and mind control weren't as effective on physiological triggers. In a last ditch-effort, he dug his fingers into the muscles of his bad leg. The pain it caused was exquisite, but it still wasn't enough. Consciousness slipped away, leaving him vulnerable and at the mercy of whatever creature was coming down the path.


	16. Chapter 16

"…"

"….ar me?…Mr. Ree…hear..?"

A voice, sounding hollow and distant, worked its way through the darkness. It was badly distorted; he could only pick up traces of what was being said. John tried to raise his level of awareness, but he was so tired. Sinking back into the void required far less effort than waking up.

"…ease, John…Please wa…"

The voice wasn't going away and it was becoming more urgent. He felt warm fingers press against his throat and a tentative hand on his chest.

"…him, Dr. Maxw…He is, but…eezing…unconc…do I do?"

The voice had begun to sound familiar. Suddenly the effort needed to wake up didn't seem so great. Fighting against the internal forces trying to keep him in the dark, John worked his way toward the sound of the voice he knew so well.

"…right, I'll see what I can do. Doctor, you have to hurry, he's…"

"Finch…that you?"

"Standby, doctor. I think he's coming to. Mr. Reese? Can you hear me?"

John opened his eyes. Harold's concerned face swam in and out of focus in front of him. "Finch…thought you were a bear…"

"Bear? No – he's with Dr. Maxwell," the hacker said, misunderstanding his friend's comment. "We had to split up when Bear wanted to turn down a game path. We didn't know if he was still tracking you or had the scent of a deer…"

"Finch, I'm…" He wanted to apologize for running out and making a mess of everything, but he was shivering too hard to speak clearly.

Harold put a hand on his arm. "Are you injured, John?"

He shook his head, his eyelids already starting to droop. "Cold. Tired."

"Stay awake, John," Harold said, slipping out of his raincoat and draping it over his friend. The thin material was a far cry from the pile of blankets the man needed, but it was better than nothing. "Are you still there, doctor? Yes, he did, but I'm afraid he's not overly…"

Drowsiness was one of the more dangerous symptoms of low body temperature; once you closed your eyes, there was a chance you may never open them again. He didn't think he was to that point yet, but it was hard to tell. There was a lot about his brush with hypothermia he didn't remember – or at least chose not to.

While Harold reconnected with Steve, John allowed his eyes to shut. The lift he'd gotten from his friend's arrival was fading quickly and the void was beckoning to him again. _Just for a minute…no harm in…_

"No, Mr. Reese. Dr. Maxwell says I have to keep you awake. Come on, John, wake up."

"Finch…" John didn't intend for his tone to be so plaintive, but at the moment it was the best he could do. He wanted to tell him it wasn't the cold that was making him tired, it was the sleepless nights he'd spent walking, the altercation with Sameen, and the spontaneous hike through the woods that had done him in. He doubted the hacker would have believed him and besides, his body had other ideas. Despite his friend shouting in his ear, John's consciousness slipped away.

When he woke again, Steve had arrived with Bear. The doctor was more forceful about him staying awake than Harold, but John barely registered the sharp squeezes to his shoulder or the painful grating of knuckles against his sternum.

His perception of time and events became warped as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Snatches of conversation; Steve's efforts to warm him; being pulled to his feet; Harold's words of encouragement; a pinch on the back of his hand and warmth flowing up his arm. Each time he surfaced, it was for a little longer and his head felt a little clearer.

"…the hell?"

"…Have you found, doctor?"

"Look at…"

John was vaguely aware of the two men talking, but it was laughter that lured him up from the darkness. It wasn't the sound alone that caught his attention; it was more the tone – amused, but reserved – and the proximity – extremely close. It had come from Harold, and – given how distressed he'd sounded earlier – was something else that struck him as odd.

"Are those footprints?"

"Yeah – looks like the world's biggest parrot paid him a visit."

"Not a parrot – those prints were made by a bird with anisodactyl feet, not zygodactyl."

"What?"

"Parrots have zygodactyl feet – two toes in the front and two in the back. The feet that made those prints are anisodactyl – three toes in the front and one in the back. It was most likely some sort of game bird like a pheasant, grouse, or…"

"Turkey."

"Mr. Reese," Harold exclaimed. "I didn't realize you were awake."

"It was a mother turkey and her chicks."

"Poults," the hacker said, unable to stop himself from making the correction. "Young turkeys are called poults. It looks like they may have used you as a roost – there are muddy foot prints on your pants."

As Harold spoke, John realized he could feel the vibration of his words as well as hear them. He opened his eyes. It took a moment for them to adjust to brightness of the small spotlight that had been set up, but once they did he understood why. He was quite literally cuddled up against the older man with his head resting on his shoulder. Confused and a little freaked out, John abruptly tried to pull away.

"Easy, easy," Steve said, loosening the blankets that encircled the two men just enough to allow him to sit up. "Sharing body heat is an effective way to treat hypothermia in the field. Skin-to-skin contact is more effective, but I didn't like the look Harold gave me when I suggested it. How do you feel?"

"Been better. Been worse."

"I was looking for something a little more specific."

"Cold…tired…" He tensed abruptly when a harsh shiver made his teeth rattle. "Cold."

"Try not to fight against the shivering, John. Are you in any pain?"

"I'll survive."

The doctor frowned at his response, but let it go for now. "Your temperature registered at eighty-eight degrees when I got here. Between hot packs, warmed intravenous fluids, and a little unabashed snuggling, you've gained about a degree. It's not a lot, but at least you're headed in the right direction."

John felt movement between his knees just before a black muzzle emerged from the seam where the blankets closed around his chest. "Bear," he greeted, smiling as the dog's pink tongue flicked out and licked his chin.

"You're lucky he was here," Steve said, reaching for something in the large backpack he'd brought. "Otherwise you would have had me to complete the threesome."

John shuddered, only this time, it wasn't just because of the cold. He shifted the blankets aside to allow him enough freedom to rub Bear's head. In doing so, he saw that his clothes had been changed and a chemical heating pad had been placed in his lap. His damaged left hand was bandaged and his right had an IV catheter taped to the back of it.

"Think you can drink something?" Steve asked, holding out a cup of steaming liquid that he had poured from a thermos. "It's heated ginger ale. Drink as much as you can; it'll warm your core and the sugar will boost your energy."

He tried to take the cup, but his hands were shaking too badly to hold it. _Back to being an invalid…_ he thought cynically as the doctor helped him take a drink of the hot and very sweet liquid. With his belly full of warmth, he sagged heavily against Harold and sighed.

"Not exactly how you envisioned your day to be, Mr. Reese?" the hacker asked.

"No. I'm sorry, Finch. I screwed up."

"This wasn't entirely your doing, John."

"I let my emotions take control – I know better than to let that happen."

"It happens to the best of us, I'm afraid. A wounded heart can make even the most resolute person do foolish things. It's what makes us unique as a species," Harold said, pausing for a moment before continuing. "And quite possibly damns us all."

The two men fell silent. John closed his eyes and tried to ignore the doctor as he checked his vital signs. He was still shivering violently and knew from experience that he would be for some time to come. He was just starting to feel drowsy when a hand clamped down hard on the sensitive muscle between his neck and shoulder. Growling a curse, he tried to dislodge it, but only succeeded in loosening its grip.

"Stay awake, John," Steve warned, letting go of the man's shoulder only once he was certain he would remain alert.

"I'm tired."

"Well, maybe you should try sleeping at night instead of walking tight circles around your room."

"Shaw told you."

"It was the Machine, actually," Harold replied. "It told us everything except what Ms. Shaw said to upset you." He knew better than to pry; if his friend wanted to share, he would when he was ready.

"You were making progress, John – _impressive_ progress. Why would you do something so reckless?" Steve asked.

"I had to get away."

"Okay, fine, but taking a four mile hike out into the middle of God's country when you were only cleared to go a dozen steps to the bathroom – probably not one of your better ideas."

"I didn't realize how far I'd gone."

"Really? The pain that was undoubtedly shooting up your leg didn't clue you in?"

"I wasn't thinking about that."

"Then what _were_ you thinking about?"

"Nothing!" John said sharply. "I wasn't thinking about anything – I was running."

For Harold, this quiet admittance was a pretty big clue as to what Sameen had said. For Steve, however, it sounded more like denial or an excuse than a confession.

"You've got some spectacular bruising and pockets of swelling from head to toe along your right side. Did your leg give out or did you slip?"

"Slipped," John answered, although he wasn't entirely certain himself. "Nothing's broken."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that? You've already second-guessed one expert's opinion, and look where it's gotten you." He could tell the hacker was shocked by his abrupt display of exasperation, but John never flinched.

Being in such close proximity to his friend, Harold could feel him starting to tense. "Doctor…"

"No – I think he's forgotten that it's not just himself that his actions affect right now." Steve tried to level his gaze with John's, but the other man refused to look up. "There are a lot of people invested in getting you back on your feet. How do you think they're going to feel if your little excursion has undone any of the progress they've helped you make? That you ignored their advice in favor of your own and did something you knew damn well you weren't ready for – and all because you got your nose bent over something Sam said?"

"I don't believe it's that simple, Dr. Maxwell. Ms. Shaw may have…"

"Come on, Harold. He's an ex-government hit man. Between the things he's seen and done, what could she have possibly said that would upset him enough to jeopardize months worth of progress?"

"She was disrespectful to Carter," John uttered, surprising them both when he spoke.

"Okay, not a nice thing to do, but it doesn't…"

"And then she said…she said I…" John closed his eyes and bit back against the emotions that he felt building within. He was already ashamed of himself; there was no need to add to it by losing his composure. "She said I chose my work over saving Jessica's life."

Harold muttered a rare curse and gripped the younger man's arm in a gesture of condolence.

"Why would she say that?" Steve asked, catching the "are you happy now?" glare coming from the hacker. He had a vague idea who Jessica was from the back-story he'd been given while being brought up to speed on the Machine. The murder of his former girlfriend had shaken John to the core and nearly destroyed him. _No wonder he ran…_

"To prove a point."

"What point, John?" Harold asked, wanting to keep his friend talking.

"That I don't cope well with the loss of control. She said I'm predictable – that I smash heads and run when things don't go my way."

"There have been several instances when your response to a situation was…" The hacker hesitated – he knew he had to be careful what he said and how he said it. "Intense, but never unwarranted."

"She doesn't understand – it's not the loss of control; it's the loss of a person – a special person. It's hard to accept when giving your best isn't enough. No matter how much you try to do things right – to protect them – they still get taken away from you. To lose a person you have a connection with is to lose part of yourself too. And then to be blamed for it is…" His voice broke and he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. This is my fault anyway. I shouldn't have told her I had thoughts of quitting."

"Quitting?"

"I should be back on my feet by now, Finch. I'm not getting anywhere but frustrated."

"You quit rehab now, and I guarantee you'll never reach your full potential," Steve told him. "Recovery isn't a race – it's about making consistent, forward progress. It's also not about instant gratification. Plateauing is normal and means you're ready to move onto the next step. Brandy was in the process of making changes to your program when you started showing up too stiff and sore to work. All of those miles you put in during the night were hurting you, John, not helping."

The doctor's phone buzzed. "Excuse me a second." He took it from his pocket and brought it to his ear. "Yeah, Sam. Go ahead."

"You can't quit now, Mr. Reese. Not when you've come so far," Harold said as Steve stepped away to answer his call. "Recovery can be a frustrating time – I know I struggled quite often during mine. You're not alone, though. We're all here for you: Dr. Maxwell, Ms. Dunn, the staff at Egret's Haven, Ms. Shaw – although I know it doesn't seem it at the moment – myself, and even Grace."

"How was the museum?"

"The museum?" Harold echoed, the sudden shift in subject surprising him as much as the casualness of the question itself. "You mean where we went today…oh, well…it was… enlightening. Certainly not on the same scale as what we toured back in Italy, but for a small venue it was nice. Grace took an abundance of photos; I'm sure she'd be happy to share them with you if you're interested."

There was movement beneath the blanket as Bear stood up and turned a couple of tight circles.

"Seriously though, John, if you're having a hard time, _say_ something," Harold said, once the dog had resettled himself again. "I know ego can get in the way of asking for help, but you have to set it aside. That inner sense of pride can hold you back just as much as it can drive you forward.

"I spoke with Ms. Dunn the other day. She was hopeful that you would be feeling better soon; she's eager to get you started in hydrotherapy. I'd forgotten that the facility has a state-of-the-art saltwater pool. It's climate controlled and even has an underwater treadmill. She thinks it'll be beneficial to your recovery…as well as mine."

It wasn't something he got to do often, but John liked to swim. It was easy on the body, provided good resistance training, promoted relaxation, and… _Wait a minute…_ He looked over at his friend. "'Your recovery'?"

The hacker nodded. "After considering what you said and discussing it with Grace, I've decided to take Dr. Horn up on his offer. If all goes well, I'll be up and around a few days after the surgery. Ms. Dunn will be doing my rehabilitation and she said I could join your sessions once I'm ready – with your permission, of course. She thought perhaps we could motivate one another…well…I think she meant that _you_ could motivate _me_."

"You're assuming I'm going back."

"You have to, John. You've come too far to give into discouragement now. Don't limit your future by being impatient with yourself today."

John sighed. Part of him wanted to quit – to leave Egret's Haven behind and do the rest of his rehab on his own. He had no place to go or any idea what he would do once – if – he got back on his feet, but the Machine could help him with that. Part of him also knew Harold was right. He had to go back. All he had to do was look at his current predicament to realize that he still needed help. Walking away now would result in a less than full recovery and leave him plagued with permanent limitations and a lifetime of pain.

"Pairing up for PT sounds fun," he said at last. "I could use the motivation too."

"All right," Steve said as he rejoined them. "Sam and Grace will be here in about fifteen minutes to help us get you back. Is that going to be a problem?"

John's gaze narrowed sharply when he realized the question was directed at him. "You're asking if Shaw will be safe around me, Maxwell?"

"Given what was said, how upset it made you, and your past reactions to situations like this, I feel obligated to ask."

"I could have easily killed Shaw for what she said. I was angry enough and she knew it," he began, his tone severe despite his uncontrolled shivering. "But I didn't; I couldn't. I'm not that type of person anymore. Revenge killing isn't as redemptive as it sounds. It wouldn't have taken back what Shaw said or made it hurt any less; it would have just added to the blood that's already on my hands."

Harold's eyebrows gradually rose as he listened to his friend speak. He was glad John was opening up, but it was so unlike him that he briefly wondered if Steve had pushed something more than saline through the man's IV.

"I never killed because I enjoyed it; it was part of my job. You could say I was as dedicated to my work as you are to yours, doctor – our skill sets are just a little different. I will still take a life, but I need a damn good reason to do it. Shaw running her mouth just didn't fit the bill."

Steve frowned – both in thought and at himself. The fact that the man in front of him was a deceptively lethal weapon didn't make him any less of a person. And if seeing was believing, the emotion that had played out on his face earlier was all the proof he needed. _I really have to stop underestimating this guy…_

"I don't doubt you, John. In fact, I respect you – a lot. I just know what you're capable of and it's not something I want to see a demonstration of firsthand."

John tightened the blankets around himself as a fierce shiver raced up his spine. "We all have our gifts and curses; things just get complicated when they're one and the same."

"Well, I'm grateful you have more control over yourself than Sam does of her mouth," Steve replied, earning a small smirk from his patient. He reached for his gear bag. "How are you feeling? Any warmer?"

"A little."

"Mind if I check your progress?"

John let the doctor place the thermometer he'd taken from his bag beneath his tongue without protest. Closing his eyes, he tried unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable position within the confines of the blanket. Every fiber of his being ached with fatigue – the constant shivering keeping his already exhausted body from resting even briefly. The thought of his room back at Egret's Haven had never been as appealing as it was now. The soft bed and warm blankets called to him, offering him comfort, respite, and the opportunity to put the entire catastrophic day behind him.

He opened his eyes when the thermometer beeped.

"Ninety point two," Steve said, reading the numbers on the backlit display as he retrieved the tiny machine.

"That's not much of an improvement," Harold remarked.

"No, but we're after consistency, not speed. A slow, gradual warming is safer than an abrupt one. I would like to see him a little warmer before the ladies get here though." He returned the thermometer to its case and reached for the thermos. "Let's get some more of this into you and then I'll start you on another round of heated fluids."

"So, the turkeys," Harold began once John had had his fill of the warmed soda. "Were they just passing through?"

"They stuck around for a while," John replied. He chose to keep his initial desire for a bear or cougar to find him to himself. He'd gotten past the issue on his own and it really wasn't something he wanted to talk about. He also had a feeling that Harold already suspected there had been some self-destructive thoughts involved, if not before he knew what Sameen had said, then definitely after. "The little ones were cute."

"Cute or not, they still wiped their feet on you," Steve pointed out. He was in the middle of exchanging the nearly empty bag of IV fluids for the full one he'd had warming off to the side. "Now, I have an important question for you and I need an honest answer – how certain are you that you didn't break anything when your leg gave out and you fell?"

"Fairly. And my leg didn't give out, Maxwell. I slipped."

Although not entirely convinced about the last part, the doctor felt like the ex-op was being truthful. "When the ladies get here, I want to try getting you up on your feet. If your bad leg holds, I'd like to see if you walk out of here rather than us carrying you."

"It'll hold," John replied, sounding more confident than in his previous response. He'd gotten himself this far; he should at least be able to get himself back.

"Is it safe with his temperature still being so low?" Harold asked.

"There are some things we'll have to watch out for – an irregular heart rhythm and low blood pressure being the two big ones. I asked Sam to bring a backboard in case we need it, but walking will help generate heat and that will expedite the warming process." He looked to John. "And once we get your temperature back to where it belongs, I'll snap a few x-rays just to make sure you're not lying to me – and yourself."

John shot the doctor an icy glare – or as close to one as he could at the moment. "How was school?" he asked, choosing to change the subject rather than waste his precious little energy on defending himself.

"Great," Steve replied. "I helped get a student expelled."

"That's usually not something to be proud of, doctor," Harold said, hearing the hint of satisfaction in the man's voice.

"Normally I'd agree with you, but this one had it coming. She tried to pass off an essay written by former student of mine as her own and then proceeded to lie about it to my face."

"What did you do?"

"Recommended psychiatry."

Harold frowned. "As a major?"

"No, for her personally, and then I turned her over to the department head. Two days later, she was escorted off the campus. Apparently it wasn't the first time she'd been caught "borrowing" from other people." Steve shrugged. "It's too bad. You want to see them succeed and try to point them in the right direction, but the path they choose is their own."

"Yes, that's very true," the hacker agreed. He hadn't worn Professor Whistler's shoes for long, but the sentiment still made sense.

"Well, this is a Kodak moment."

The three men jumped; lost in their conversation, they'd never heard Sameen or seen her flashlight coming up the trail.

"Too bad my phone doesn't take good pictures in low light. I can think of a number of things to do with a photo of something like this."

"Ms. Shaw…" The warning was subtle, but the message was clear.

"Don't worry, Finch – the thought of blackmail never crossed my mind."

"Where's Grace?" he asked. "I thought she was coming with you?"

"She did. She's checking out an alternate trail that the Machine found. If the terrain matches the topography, we'll be able to bypass the most technical part of the trail we came in on." She looked around. "Where's Bear?"

Before either of them could answer, a tail appeared from beneath the blankets and began to thump against the ground.

"Oh, Bear, please tell me they didn't make you a part of this twisted ménage a trois?"

"It's consensual," Steve replied, earning a decidedly uncomfortable look from Harold.

Sameen released the shoulder straps holding the long backboard she'd brought and dropped it to the ground with a relieved sigh. It didn't weigh much, but it had snagged on every low tree branch along the way. She looked down at John, noting his pale complexion, violent shivering, and just plain worn out appearance.

"You don't do anything in halves, do you, Reese?" she asked as she knelt in front of him. He lifted his gaze to meet hers, but said nothing. It was more the blank stare than the silence that struck her as unsettling. She would never call him an open book, but his eyes generally gave insight to his mood. Now, however, they were emotionless and dull. If given the choice, she would have preferred to see burning hatred or contempt over nothing at all. At least then she would have known where she stood with him.

"So, what happened to the garden?"

"I changed my mind."

"And a four mile hike sounded better to you?"

Steve saw Harold open his mouth to intervene and shook his head to stop him. If the two agents were going to have an issue with one another, it was better to know about it now than half way down the trail.

"I wanted to be alone," John said.

"You get alone by locking yourself in the bathroom, Reese, not running off."

"I tried – you threatened to break down the door."

"I didn't know what you were doing in there."

"Trying to be _alone_!"

Sameen sat back at the man's sharp tone. John didn't raise his voice often, but when he did, it never failed to get your attention. _You're partially to blame for this…_ she told herself. _…Or mostly…or completely…_

"All right, I screwed up. You wouldn't be out here if it wasn't for what I said and I'm sorry for that – but you made poor choices too. You took matters into your own hands, frustrated yourself to the point of eruption, and then ran off when things got too hot. I said things I shouldn't have, but you should have never come out here, John. I mean look at you – you're hypothermic, exhausted, and God only knows what you bruised or broke…"

"Nothing's broken…"

"…When you fell. Plus if Bear hadn't been with us to point the way, you would have died out here from exposure. Is that what you wanted?"

"Initially," he admitted quietly.

"Let me guess – you changed your mind about that too?"

"Would we be having this conversation if I didn't?"

Sameen snorted. "You got the time alone you were after – was it really worth it?"

John thought back over the misery of the last few hours: the cold, the rain, the difficult emotions, and physical pain. But something good had come out of it too. He'd realized that while there may be times when he was ready for death, death wasn't necessarily ready for him.

"Yes," he said. "It was." If he'd blinked at the wrong moment, he would have missed the surprise that registered briefly on Sameen's face. He didn't know what she'd been expecting – denial or maybe regret – but it definitely wasn't the response he'd given.

Footsteps approaching from behind alerted everyone to Grace's arrival. She paused for a moment to take in the scene in front of her before bending down to give Harold a kiss on the forehead.

"I was getting worried about you," he said.

"I was fine. Your Machine and I had a lovely chat along the way." She looked at John. "How are you feeling, hon?"

"Better, thanks," he said shyly, still not used to her terms of endearment. "I never knew Finch was so snuggly."

The forest around them seemed to plunge into silence. It was broken by Sameen who actually snickered and quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. Steve was grinning from ear to ear and Grace wore a look of delighted surprise. Harold, however, was mortified.

"He can be quite the little Snuggly Bug, can't he?" Grace asked, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "Don't worry, Harold. I've known that about you all along."

"Thank you, my dear, but that really doesn't help," Harold uttered, his face burning with embarrassment. He welcomed the reprieve from the stress of the situation, but never expected it to come at his expense.

"Now that Harold has a new nickname," Steve began, gently steering the conversation back on track. "We should probably start to think about how we're going to get John home. Grace, Sam said the Machine had you check out an alternate trail – how'd it look?"

"It's a no-go unless one of you packed a chainsaw," she replied. "There are some pretty big trees down across the path – it doesn't look like it's been maintained like the others."

"All right, so it's back the way we came – well, the way you three came anyway; there's no way we're taking the game path Bear led me down."

"You still think getting him on his feet is a good idea?" Sameen asked. Based on appearance, John didn't look like he had enough energy to sit up unaided, let alone stand and walk.

"Yeah, his temp's come up enough to minimize the risks and he's assured me he didn't break anything when he fell."

"And you believed him?"

The doctor shrugged. "For the most part. I want to get the gear packed up and then we'll give standing a try." He looked over at the shivering man. "Sound good?"

John nodded. As the doctor loosened the blanket cocoon, he shifted his position to give Harold the room he needed to stand. Resting his head against the tree behind him, he closed his eyes, allowing himself a few minutes to recharge. He hurt from head to toe, but backing out of the walk home never crossed his mind.

The sound of a zipper being pulled roused him from the doze he didn't realize he'd fallen into. He opened his eyes to see Grace strapping Harold into a large backpack; similar to the one she was already carrying. Steve was packing away the last of his gear and Sameen was tying a small blinking light to Bear's collar. They were working by headlamp light, the advanced state of darkness indicating he'd been out longer than he'd thought.

John sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. The drip line from the IV was gone, but he saw that the catheter was still in place. Using his elbows as leverage, he sat forward with a grunt. He was shivering harder than before, his body missing the added warmth of Harold, Bear, and the heating pads. He began slowly stretching his sore muscles and joints. While he still maintained that nothing was broken, he knew the next few days would be spent enduring a new kind of hurt.

He flexed his legs with caution. The left was sore from being in a fixed position for so long, but the right was stiff, heavy, and felt full of broken glass. Although he schooled his features as he continued to bend it, he still caught the doctor's attention.

"Does it hurt?" Steve asked, kneeling down in front of him. He was encouraged to see John starting to move around on his own, but he'd seen the brief flash of pain that crossed his face.

"A little."

"You probably didn't do yourself any favors by landing on your right side."

"He hasn't done himself any favors in years," Sameen said, only half serious. "You still want to do this?"

"Yep."

"Need a hand?"

John raised an eyebrow when she offered her hand for him to take. He studied her for a moment – trying to determine if she was being genuine or just going through to motions for show. What he saw – a willingness to hold his gaze and a slightly impatient look – reassured him enough to reach out and take her hand.

"We'll bring you up slow," Steve said, taking his other hand. "Ready? One, two, three – up!"

Before he could gather himself to help, John was on his feet. The sudden change in height made his head spin and his already weak knees buckle. A strong arm cinched around his waist, keeping him upright and jarring his bruised ribs.

"Easy there, tough guy," Sameen said, supporting a fair amount of his weight as Steve rearranged the blankets. "Hurry up and find your feet. Bear needs to be home in time to watch the big game."

"Baseball?"

"Dock Dogs. He's been following the progress of this Malinois bitch all season and tonight's the regional championship."

The ex-op grinned. He was mad at her for what she had said and would likely be for some time, but there was no room in his life for grudges. If she was making an effort to move on, so would he. "I wouldn't wager against him."

"Don't worry – I learned my lesson during the semi-finals. I still owe him a marrowbone and two beef knuckles."

With the blankets adjusted, Steve brought John's right arm across his shoulders while Sameen did the same with his left. "Want to try a few steps?"

Although his legs were unsteady and sore, John was relieved when they held under his full weight. The right one bothered him the most, but the pain was at a manageable level. By the time they reached where the others were waiting, he was using Sameen and Steve more for balance than support.

"You two all set to go?" Steve asked.

"Yes – if Mr. Reese is ready, of course," Harold answered, lengthening Bear's leash to allow the excited dog to greet his human.

"I am."

"I'm not expecting you to walk the entire trip, John. Even going for ten or fifteen minutes will help boost your temperature. If you start to feel tired or the pain worsens, speak up," the doctor instructed. As much as he hoped John would be honest, Steve still kept his fingers curled lightly around his wrist, knowing his pulse would likely indicate stress before he said anything. "All right, let's see if we can beat the rain. Harold, Grace – take us home."

 _Home…_ Harold thought as he reeled Bear in and directed him toward the trail. It wasn't so much Steve's reference to the medical center as 'home' that struck him as odd as it was the confusing and totally unrelated question that popped into his mind: _Home…what does it mean when a temporary home feels more like home than home does itself…?_


	17. Chapter 17

Harold looked at himself in the mirror and frowned. The short cut wetsuit he wore was a far cry from the formalwear he was used to. Despite purposely choosing a suit that was several sizes larger than necessary, the material still clung in places that he found awkward and – as some would say – left little to the imagination.

He sighed and turned away from his reflection, afraid if he dwelt much longer, he'd give in to his insecurities. He walked over to the rack of towels and selected the largest one he could find. Opening it, he flipped it over his shoulder in what he hoped was an inconspicuous way of covering himself.

Feeling a little more confident with the towel shroud, he returned to the locker he'd been given to store his clothes. He'd folded everything neatly as he'd removed them – or so he'd thought. Now as he inspected the pile of clothes, he could see the inferior job he had done. "No, no, no, no, no…" he muttered as he took them from the locker. "This won't do."

 _"You're stalling, Harold."_

The hacker jumped, having forgotten about his earpiece. "If I leave them folded like this in the humid air, they'll wrinkle. This suit just returned from the cleaners and I doubt very much Grace would appreciate needing to take it back so soon."

" _Oh, Harry…"_ the Machine sighed in his ear.

Three weeks had passed since he'd had his surgery. The procedure had gone without complication and he was able to walk around the day after it was done. The specialist had expressed some regret for not having been able to give him the level of mobility he had initially promised, but Harold couldn't have been happier. His limp had become less prominent – unless he was tired or on stairs – and he could turn his head nearly forty-five degrees without pain. With time and effort, he would likely gain several more degrees as his neck muscles healed and strengthened. For the first time in years, he was able to lie down comfortably and turn his head without feeling like there was barbwire cinching around the base of his neck.

While he welcomed a more normalized gait and the increase in range of motion, it was the reduction in pain that he welcomed the most. _Or at least that's what I keep trying to tell myself…_

 _"…The pool?"_

"What?" Harold asked when he realized the Machine had been talking. "I'm sorry, my mind was elsewhere."

" _I asked if it was the pool that had you concerned,"_ the Machine replied. _"Can you even swim?"_

"Yes, of course. My father taught me when I was just a boy. I'm not what you'd call a proficient swimmer – I've been in the water less than a dozen times – but I know several basic strokes. So no – it's not the pool that has me distracted."

 _"The wetsuit then? I know you prefer a more modest look, but that suit hugs you in all the right places."_

The hacker thought he'd gotten used to the Machine's use of Root's voice and mannerisms, but the sultry tone in which it had spoken sent a chill down his spine.

"The wetsuit is uncomfortable, yes, but it's not what's bothering me."

The Machine went quiet, making him think – and hope – it had given up on its questioning. His physical therapy had been going well until Brandy deemed him ready to start using the pool. He was glad to finally be able to join in with John's daily sessions, but his conscience continued to remind him that progress wasn't always a good thing.

 _"You're not still feeling guilty, are you?"_

Harold sighed. "A little."

 _"How many times have we been over this, Harry?"_

"Many. Too many."

 _"The surgery was a huge step toward bettering your future, not an attempt to abandon your past. There's just no other way to say it."_

"Perhaps this isn't something that can be dealt with through reason," Harold replied, unfolding and refolding his trousers for the third time. "Maybe I just…need some time to adjust. The pain is something I lived with for many years. For it to be gone is a strange feeling and one that I'm not overly comfortable with yet."

 _"The pain was reassuring to you."_

"Reassuring? No – more like _en_ suring. It was how I knew I'd never forget the mistakes I'd made or the people I could have saved and didn't. Without it, I have no way to honor their lives. "

 _"I can think of one."_

He shook his head. "I can't go back to working Numbers. It's not that I don't want to…it's just not feasible now with Grace back in my life."

While John had been recovering from his ill-advised trip through the woods, they had spent a lot of time reminiscing. He never realized how much he missed the days when it had just been them working the Numbers. There had been bitter loss and hardship along the way – HR had complicated things, Decima had changed the rules, and Samaritan had nearly destroyed them – but they'd come through. He'd felt guilty back then too, but the work they were doing helped assuage the worst of it. Knowing that piece of his life was over made him pine for those early days even more.

With his retirement imminent, less pain, and the opportunity to spend the rest of his life with the woman he loved, Harold knew he should be happy. Instead he found himself becoming more apprehensive and doubtful about the path his life was taking. "We'll be heading back to Tuscany soon, and after that I'm not sure what will happen."

 _"Change is on the horizon…big change."_

"I'm not overly fond of change."

" _I know – but you will be of this. I promise."_

The Machine's reassurance did little to remedy his misgivings; he needed concrete answers to his problems, not the uncertainly of surprises.

 _"You're not going to discover the secrets of the universe by staring at your skivvies, Harold."_

He looked down at the undergarment in his hand. "No, I suppose not."

 _"Then stop fussing with your tighty-whiteys and go show the world that amazing physique of yours."_

The hacker rolled his eyes. He wondered if the day would come when a human could claim sexual harassment against an artificial intelligence. He'd become accustomed to the Machine's flirtatious nature, but its suggestive innuendos still caught him off guard. He didn't know the cause – a coding error, progressive AI evolution, or – the one he suspected the most – one of Root's special "upgrades". Regardless of the reason, he found it to be inappropriate, unnecessary, and… _oddly comforting…_

Crude as it were, the comment got him moving. He picked up his studiously folded clothes and returned them to the locker, remembering this time to remove his earpiece. It wasn't made to get wet and he was one more provocative comment away from getting dressed and calling quits to the whole thing. With his belongings secured, he headed for the door that led directly to the pool, pausing in front of the mirror long enough to make sure the towel hadn't shifted.

The hydrotherapy center at Egret's Haven was an impressive sight. About half the size of an Olympic pool, it was housed in a climate-controlled building lined with floor to ceiling windows along two sides. The water was brackish rather than chlorinated and the humid air smelt faintly of the sea. A diving board hung over the deep end, and textured rails, ramps, and wide-rung ladders all around made the pool handicap accessible. Each corner of the shallow end bumped out along the side to accommodate an underwater treadmill and powerful jets that would allow a person to swim in place.

"Wachten!" (wait)

Harold was just stepping out of the locker room when the sharply spoken command made him freeze. He thought it was meant for him until he saw Bear sitting against the wall by the shallow end of the pool. The large dog was leaning forward, oblivious to his arrival. His eyes were locked on John, who was standing at the opposite end with a ball hanging from a rope in his hand. Orange cones had been placed on the edge about a third of the way down the long sides of the pool.

John swung the toy and gave the wait command again. A low whine began to build deep in Bear's throat and his back legs trembled. Harold thought if the dog was made to wait any longer, he would literally vibrate apart.

He released the rope and sent the ball sailing through the air. "Bear, halen!" (fetch)

With a grunt of effort, the Malinois bolted across the floor, his toenails scrabbling on the mosaic tiles for purchase. He covered the distance between him and the edge of the pool in mere seconds and launched headlong into the air. The dog hit the water with a mighty splash, landing well in front of the orange cones. A confident swimmer, Bear paddled over to his floating toy and seized it in his teeth before turning for the ramp at the opposite end.

"My goodness!" Harold exclaimed. "Where did he learn do that?"

"I think we might have a Dock Dogs champion in our midst, Finch," John said, clapping the wet dog on the shoulder. "Those cones are set at twenty-eight feet – the length of the longest jump he made yesterday."

"He landed beyond them this time."

John beamed. "The current record is just shy of thirty-one feet. A little more practice and some real traction under his paws, I think he could do it."

"It wouldn't surprise me." Harold was glad to see his friend smiling. He'd had a rough couple of days after his altercation with Sameen. Physically exhausted and in substantial pain, he'd slept for nearly seventy-two hours straight. X-rays confirmed that nothing broke when he fell, but Steve warned that the pockets of bone-deep bruising along his ribs, hip, and bad leg would still hamper his recovery. The doctor had restricted him to minimal activity and only recently allowed him to resume light PT.

The hacker watched as John made his way toward him. His limp was quite pronounced, although Harold could tell he was trying to conceal it as much as he could. His ribs were taped, but most of the still livid bruising along his right side was visible. Even more sobering were the number of scars the man carried on his body, the most prominent ones caused by the bullets from Samaritan's assault team. He seemed to wear them without notice, a feat Harold wasn't sure he would be capable of himself.

"Looking good, Finch," John greeted.

Harold saw what he thought was a twinkle of amusement in his friend's eyes. "This is the most uncomfortable thing I have ever worn – and I don't just mean physically either."

"They take a little getting used to." John put a finger under the sleeve of his friend's wetsuit and tugged at the loose material. "This one's too big – you should try the next size down."

"I chose a larger size on purpose. I had hoped it would reduce the glove-like quality and it did – just not in the desired places. The Machine took notice – I'd rather nobody else did."

The ex-op grinned. "You have the body for it, Finch," he replied, carefully – painfully – going to one knee to pick up the ball and rope toy Bear had dropped at his feet. "You're just too modest. The pool is a judgment free zone. You can relax down here."

"In time, perhaps," Harold replied, referring to wearing more casual pool attire. The women had picked them up swim trunks on their latest outing. The black and white pair suited John rather well, but the tropical print they'd gotten for him was a bit too garish for his liking. "Where's Ms. Dunn?"

"She had to take a call." John tossed the ball into the water and was nearly bowled over as Bear hurried after it. "She said you could get in if you wanted to though."

"Oh…well…there's no need to rush into things. I can wait for Ms. Dunn to be finished with her call. In fact, I…" Harold realized he was rambling when John looked at him with his eyebrows raised.

"Can you swim, Finch?"

"Yes. Not well, but enough to keep from drowning – immediately anyway." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reese. It's not the pool that's bothering me, it's…well, you know what's bothering me."

"Still think you're going to forget the past?"

"Ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Not really." Doing his best to keep the pain from his face, John lowered himself to the edge of the pool and put his feet into the water. "Demons are harder to put away than they are to take out."

"You seemed to have corralled yours in a timely manner," Harold said, sitting down beside him with surprising ease.

"I've had a lot of practice."

They watched as Bear climbed out of the pool, shook the water from his coat, and flopped panting to the floor, all without ever losing his grip on his rope toy.

"Shaw and Grace back yet?"

"No, but I spoke with Grace this morning before they left the hotel. Unless they stopped somewhere along the way, they should be back anytime."

"Did she say how things went?"

"Good. She was as impressed by the school as much as the director was impressed with her work," Harold said. "She said she was asked to come give a couple of lectures while we're still here in the States."

"How did she find out about this place again?"

"The school's director was touring the same art exhibit that we were several weeks ago. He recognized her from her publicity photos and they struck up a conversation. He called her that same afternoon and invited her to come tour the facilities and audit a few classes."

"Shaw at an art school. I just can't see it."

"Ms. Shaw was otherwise occupied while Grace was on campus."

"Doing what?"

"She didn't say. Working a Number, I suppose, or perhaps she went to check in with Detective Fusco – the school is less than an hour's drive from the city." Harold sighed. "I'm glad she's been given this recognition – it's been rather slow going back home."

"People not as receptive across the pond?" John asked.

"No, they're receptive, I just think the market is saturated. When people think of Italy, they think of its food, romance, and art."

"I always think of Lamborghini."

Harold smiled. "It's a good opportunity; I hope she takes advantage of it."

Still panting, Bear trotted over and dropped his rope toy between the two men. John picked it up and pitched it across the pool. The toy hadn't even left his hand when the dog rocketed over them both and hit the water with a tremendous splash.

"Have you given much thought to your future, Mr. Reese?" the hacker asked, wiping the droplets of water from his glasses on his towel.

"Work. If not as before, then at whatever capacity I physically can."

"Detective work? We'd have to find you a different precinct, but that shouldn't be…" Harold paused when the ex-op shook his head. "Too bureaucratic for you?"

John shrugged. "I'd rather save a life than figure out who took it."

"Fair enough. What about retirement?"

"What would I do?"

"We're under the radar again. You're still fairly young; there's no reason you couldn't settle down with someone special. Maybe even start a family."

"I find trouble wherever I go, Finch. There's no way I'm putting a wife or kids in the crosshairs beside me."

"Would you ever consider going back with Grace and I?"

John had been wondering where the conversation was headed, but he'd never expected this. "To Tuscany?"

The hacker nodded. "There's an in-law apartment on the property. It's small, but efficient and sits back further than the main house so it's private and would allow you to come and go as you please."

"You want me to stay…long term?"

"Yes, but if not, then as long as you like."

John gave him a sideways look. "Are you looking for a groundskeeper?"

"No, but I certainly wouldn't discourage any property maintenance that you felt compelled to do. Keeping you busy might be a challenge, but I'm sure we could come up with something." Harold looked over at his friend. The younger man was frowning, whether in thought or uncertainty, he couldn't tell. "This is something Grace and I have discussed at length and we would both be honored if you accepted."

"That's quite an offer, Finch," John uttered. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to make a decision right now, John. Take some time to think about it."

A companionable silence fell between them. "What about you, Finch?" the ex-op finally asked. "Any big plans for the future? Like maybe a wedding?"

Now it was the hacker's turn to be startled. "A wedding? Well, it's something we've talked about. We wanted to wait until things settled here and at home. Neither one of us want anything extravagant; something small and private with maybe a couple of friends."

"Have you renewed your proposal?"

"No…do you think I should?"

"Absolutely."

John said this with such conviction Harold couldn't help but smile. He had proposed to Grace years ago, back before the accident that had supposedly taken his life. With their relationship rekindled, he hadn't considered doing it again, but now that John had mentioned it… "You know, Mr. Reese, you might just be onto something."

"Harold, good morning. I'm glad you made it," Brandy said, emerging from the pool's office. She wore a dark purple bathing suit with a black stripe and her long hair done up in a tight braid that was doubled over. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting for so long – I had an unexpected phone call."

"Not a problem, Ms. Dunn. Nothing too serious, I hope?"

"Nope – just a follow up to a consultation I did a last week. Are you guys ready to get started?" She watched as both men got to their feet – Harold with newfound ease and John with more effort than she liked. "You look sore today, John."

"A little."

"Did it start after yesterday's session?"

He nodded.

"You were going to tell me that at some point, right?" He nodded again, but not before she picked up his slight hesitation. "John…"

"It'll work itself out."

"Probably, but you know that's not how I do things around here. We try something and if it makes you sore, we dial it back and try again in a few days." She sighed. "If the agreement we have is going to work, you need to honor your half of it – all right?"

John muttered something that might have been an affirmative or a command to Bear who – having emerged from the pool with his toy – dropped obediently at his handler's feet.

"I'll make some adjustments to today's session and we'll see how you do. Go ahead and get in, but no div…"

Before she could finish, John dove skillfully into the shallow water. He emerged halfway down the pool, using his good leg and arms to keep himself afloat. With an excited bark, Bear jumped in after him, the ball and rope toy trailing from his mouth.

Brandy shook her head. "How do you put up with it?"

"He tends to be more agreeable when he's in steady work," Harold replied.

She frowned. "Are you talking about John or Bear?"

"Both," the hacker said, not entirely serious.

They watched as Bear put his paws on John's shoulders and dunked him under the water as he lunged for his toy.

"You ready to get started?"

"Yes," Harold uttered, giving the water a tentative look.

"Excellent. Why don't I take your glasses and towel so they don't get wet?"

Harold fought the urge to snatch back the towel as he handed over the requested items. He could handle the blurry vision, but the towel restored a thin layer of the dignity that the wetsuit had taken away. The only bright side to the situation – if there had to be one – was that his feelings of exposure actually made him _want_ to get in the water.

"We'll be working at the shallow end on the treadmills today," Brandy said. "Go ahead and get in. I'll get John started while you're getting acclimated."

 _Get in…right…_ he thought, forcing himself to walk to the nearest ladder. _Don't think about it, Harold…just do it…_

It was a weak mantra that he didn't fully believe, but he kept thinking it as he descended the ladder, stopping only when he realized he was standing chest-deep in water. He waited for the overwhelming need to climb out again to come over him and was surprised when it didn't. He actually found being in the water to be quite pleasant; its ideal temperature, faint briny smell, and cushioning effects all combined to make an experience he hadn't been expecting.

He walked around for a few minutes, getting used to the idea of being in the water. By the time Brandy returned, his confidence was up and he was starting to relax and even enjoy himself a little.

"You don't look as nervous as you did a few minutes ago," she observed, looking down at him from the edge.

"It's not as bad as I thought it would be."

"Good to hear. Wade on over to the treadmill and we'll get started."

As Harold made his way over to the underwater track, he glanced across the pool at John. Even walking in water, the younger man's limp was still quite visible. Bear sat on the edge looking down expectantly at his human, his rope toy still dangling from his mouth.

"All right, the concept is simple," Brandy said when he was in place. "When the belt starts moving, you walk. I've set it to run a specific program, so you're going to feel it speed up, slow down, and tilt as if you're on a hill. The water jets in front of you will also come on to provide some resistance. There are handrails if you need them and if at anytime you feel like it's going too fast, speak up. Are you ready?"

Harold nodded and began walking when the belt started to move beneath his feet. He likened it to walking through fresh snow or wet sand, but the impact on his body was much less. It wasn't long before he slipped into what John would call "the zone" and took the periodic adjustments the treadmill made in stride. Closing his eyes, he envisioned himself walking along a costal beach on a sunny day. He tried not to think about the pain of the past or the concerns for the future. For the moment anyway, it was only here and now.

The tranquility he'd found abruptly vanished the instant he opened his eyes. "Oh!" he exclaimed, certain he would have come out of his skin if the wetsuit hadn't been so tight. He'd been so absorbed in his own world, he never even noticed that someone had come in and sat down beside him. "Grace!"

She smiled. "Sorry to startle you, Harold."

"It's okay, my dear. I was just off in…how long have you been there?"

"A few minutes. I didn't want to disturb you – I haven't seen you looking that relaxed in a long time."

"The water is nice."

"I tried to tell you it would be…"

"When did you get in?"

"Not long ago. Sam dropped me off, I threw my stuff in the apartment, and came down here to see you. The Machine said you could use some moral support."

"The Machine…yes." He could only imagine how that conversation went. "So when will you know your lecture dates?"

Grace's smile faded at his question. "Harold…" She sighed. "I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with you over the phone."

The hacker frowned. "Oh…did you not get invited back to lecture?"

"Not exactly. The director, he…he offered me a job."

Harold abruptly stopped walking, but had to resume when the treadmill kept moving beneath him. "A job?"

"As an instructor. It's a three-year contract with the option to renew, two – possibly four – classes per semester, a private studio, and a very competitive salary. The director has apparently been a fan of my work for years and once he saw how I interacted with the students and staff, he knew I'd be a good match for the school."

"My God, Grace, this is incredible news! What did you tell the director?"

"I gave him a tentative yes. I told him I wanted to talk it over with you first because it involved significant changes to our plans."

 _Change…the Machine said change was on the horizon…meaning it knew this was coming…_

"We'd have to stay here, Harold. We'd have to find a house or an apartment – what would we do with the house in Tuscany? I know you weren't happy there, but I hate to think of it just sitting empty…"

"What makes you think I wasn't happy there?"

She gave him a knowing look. "You're a totally different person here than you were over there. At first I thought you were just mourning the loss of your friends, but it didn't take me long to realize it was something more. It was too quiet for you, too isolated. I even think it would have gotten that way for me too, eventually."

"I thought living in Tuscany was something you always dreamed of?"

"It was – and it still is, but I want to be with you – and for you to be happy – more than anything. Taking this job would keep you close to your friends and work…"

"Oh, I'm not going back to that…"

The knowing look reappeared on her face. "…And I'd be doing something I love. Plus I'd be getting a consistent paycheck; no more waiting for a commission to come in or a display piece to sell."

Harold's heart was racing, and it wasn't just from the exercise. _Am I dreaming…?_

"I guess we always sell the place in Tuscany…if the market is still good."

"Or we could keep it," he blurted out. "Lots of people have vacation homes. We could use it on holidays and loan it out to friends."

"Are you sure this is something you really want to do?"

"Yes," Harold told her with conviction. "Go back to the apartment – no, better yet – I'm sure Ms. Dunn wouldn't mind you using the phone in the office. Call the director back and tell him yes; yes, you want the job."

Grace smiled – it was the answer she'd been hoping for. "Thank you, Harold."

Even though her features were blurry without his glasses, he could still hear the happiness in her voice. He wondered how much the Machine had had to do with making such an arrangement possible, then realized that the better part of the last year had been a direct result of its behind-the-scenes efforts. Whether it was a form of payback or the way of things to come, as long as saving lives remained the Machine's first priority, Harold didn't mind the occasional lucky "coincidence".

The chance to stay in New York, to potentially go back to working with his friends, and still be with the woman he loved…he could only think of one thing that would make things even better. "Grace."

She'd been halfway to the pool office to use the phone when he summoned her back. He'd gotten off the treadmill and was waiting for her at the edge when she arrived and knelt in front of him.

"Grace, I know this probably isn't the best time or manner, and it's certainly not planned out and I do apologize for…"

"Harold!" she exclaimed. "What?"

"Will you marry me…again?" For a single, horrible moment, the blank look on her face made him think she was going to say no. He was about to tell her just to think about it when she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

"Yes," she uttered, hanging precariously over the water. "Yes, Mr. Harold Finch, I will marry you."

Both turned to look when the other end of the pool erupted with cheers, whistles, and barks. John, Bear, and Brandy had all been watching and appeared to approve of their decision.

Taking Harold by the chin, Grace guided his gaze back onto hers. She kissed him again, winked, and then stood, leaving him to grin like a fool while she went to make her call.


	18. Chapter 18

Wow. A year and two months has passed since I first started writing this. It hardly seems like it. I'd like to say it's all been fun, but for those who've come up against writer's block can attest, being unable to find just the right word or way of saying something can come close to maddening at times. And the research – it seems that putting a simple word or phrase into a search engine suddenly renders the infinite Internet, finite.

All in all though, Covenant was fun to write. I hope everyone who has stuck with me to this point has enjoyed the journey and maybe even shares in my belief that John Reese did not die on the rooftop and went on to become Michael Emerson's "mysterious motorcycle man".

Thanks to my beta – justayellowumbrella – for making me look like my grammar skills are much better than they are and giving me the much needed pokes to keep going along the way.

Thanks to the characters (and the wonderful people who bring them to life) for letting me play with them for a while. I think I put them back in relatively good order.

And thanks to my readers – those who were able to review and those who weren't. Just knowing that a story is being read helps to keep the muse happy.

I hope I've managed to wrap things up in a satisfactory way. Thanks again for reading :)

Bander

* * *

Another two months passed. Sameen kept busy working the Numbers and was often gone for several days at a time. Steve had lessened his time at Egret's Haven from every weekend to every other and returned home to California for good. It'd been hard to bid the doctor farewell, but he'd promised to come back for a visit – as long as it didn't involve walking into a crisis. Grace – upon Harold's insistence – spent part of her time settling in at the art school and setting up her on-campus studio.

Working together, John and Harold continued to make the slow, steady progress that was the backbone of recovery. As their strength, stamina, and flexibility grew, their time with Brandy gradually lessened until her services were no longer needed. Both men were cleared for discharge on the same day. It was a pivotal moment, especially for John, who no one – including himself – had expected to survive.

Although free to go, they remained at Egret's Haven while they got their affairs in order. Harold and Grace chose to exchange vows in the garden in front of the fountain with the courting egrets. It was a private event kept among friends and officiated by a priest from a nearby parish. John was chosen as Harold's best man, Sameen as Grace's maid of honor, and Bear as the ring bearer. Meant as a joke, the role of flower girl was offered to Lionel Fusco who surprised them all by accepting and playing the part with flourish.

It was the first time Lionel had seen John since that fateful day in the subway base. He'd learned about his survival from Sameen not long after she'd found out herself. They'd spoken on the phone a few times, but he hadn't made the trip up to visit. He said it was because he didn't like hospitals, but in truth it was not knowing how he would react to seeing someone alive that he'd already accepted as dead. His misgivings and concerns turned out to be unwarranted. When he finally met up with John, the burly detective practically crushed his former partner's spine when he pulled him into a fierce hug.

With the wedding behind them, the focus turned to housing. As luck – or perhaps technologically enhanced fate – would have it, two suitable properties came on the market at the same time. While both were widely different – one an old townhouse and the other a modern cape – they were within commuting distance to the city and less than five miles apart from each other.

Even before they'd stepped inside, John had taken an immediate liking to the townhouse. Harold tried, but was unable to garner the same response; the three-story brick building was just too dark, dank, and dismal for the hacker's taste. To make matters worse, Sameen had insisted on showing them what had to be the largest spider he'd had ever seen.

According to the realtor, the large building had spent its first century as six separate apartments. In the 1970's, it had been converted into self-storage units and remained as such until changes in the zoning laws shut it down. Now, after having been empty for nearly a decade, it had come onto the market at just the right time.

"Oh my," Harold uttered as he stepped into the expansive room before him. Gone were the depressing sights and musty smells of abandonment. In their place was a neat, stylish, and uncomplicated living space that vaguely reminded him of the apartment he'd given John several years ago on his birthday. "This is _very_ different."

The layout was an open concept. The bedroom, kitchen, and living area all shared the same space, but each had been made distinctly separate by the way the furniture had been arranged. Numerous windows studded the red brick walls, their curtains drawn back to allow in the warm light. The wooden floor was old, but cared for – the many scuffs, nicks, and worn patches giving it character.

As he slowly walked around, Harold nodded his approval of the simple, yet tasteful fixtures. The stainless appliances, granite counters, leather furniture, hardwood shelving, and cast-iron bed frame – nearly everything around him had an earthy, elemental feel. He peered through doors, studied the small groupings of framed black and white photos, and paused to look at the mounted firearms that were displayed above the bed. They had the appearance of being decommissioned showpieces, but knowing John, they were fully functioning, loaded, and ready to go.

At the back of the room, there was a closed door which he gave pass. The scent of gun oil was prevalent in the air and he knew without looking that John's prized weapon collection was housed inside. He went over to the window instead and looked out at the world three stories below. It was a nice neighborhood in a small town with friendly people, ample local amenities, and a sense of community that was often lost in the big city. It was also quiet, but not _too_ quiet; one of the few things he'd adamant about during their search.

Harold stepped back and looked around the room again. It was still hard to believe it was same space he'd seen less than a month ago.

"Your awe is showing, Finch."

He turned around. John had settled himself on the leather sofa and was watching him. His feet were propped up on the stone coffee table and it took an ample amount of self-control for the hacker not to shoo him off. "Did you do all this yourself? The decorating choices, I mean."

John's eyebrows rose. "Would it surprise you if I said yes?"

Harold started to reply, but paused when he wasn't sure how to say what he was trying to convey. He wanted to pay his friend a compliment, not discredit his skill if that were the case or make him feel inferior if it weren't. "Yes…I mean, no…not really. Just given your background, I never would have guessed you had such an eye for…" He gestured vaguely at the room. " Aesthetics."

The ex-op laughed. It was a deep chuckle that was seldom heard and an expression of genuine amusement. "Don't worry, Finch. I had help. I knew what I wanted and Grace was nice enough to point out everything that would clash."

"She does have a good eye for harmony and balance," Harold agreed. "But it is your space, Mr. Reese. If you wanted something that she suggested you leave out…"

"I think she's right – the grenade shadowbox would have been too much."

The hacker smiled. "I thought this place belonged on the condemned list the last time I saw it," he said, wandering into the kitchen area for another look. "How did you get it finished so quickly?"

"Hired a contractor that would work twenty-four, seven until it was done. I think they did pretty damn good for a three-and-a-half-week turnover."

"It's incredible." He traced a vein of blue that ran through the black granite countertop with his finger. "Now you just have to decide what to do with the two lower floors."

"Just the first floor; the second floor's already done – mostly done."

"What?"

"The crew just finished a few days ago."

This was news to him. "What did you decide to do with it?"

John shrugged. "Sort of an office, reading room combination. It's not much. You want to see it?"

"Yes – if you have time, that is." He knew John had arranged to take a few weeks off to rest and regroup before returning to work full time. He hadn't shared where or who – if anyone – he was going with, which the hacker thought was fine. If the younger man wanted to go off the grid to convalesce after all he'd been through, he was more than willing to give him the space he needed.

He watched as John grabbed his motorcycle jacket from the back of the couch and got to his feet. He limped heavily on his right leg for the first half dozen or so steps, and then gradually it began to fade. By the time he reached the door, the lameness was nearly gone. His recovery from Samaritan's hail of bullets hadn't been complete, but it had come amazingly close.

"Come on," John said, holding open the door to the stairwell.

"Are you sure? I don't want to make you late or…"

"Finch…"

"Coming." Harold hurried after his friend. His own limp was still noticeable, but it was a vast improvement from what it once was. He took the flight of old wooden stairs cautiously more out of habit than necessity. John was already waiting for him by the second floor entrance, a handful of stairs no longer seen as an obstacle.

"Like I said, its not much."

"I'm sure it looks fine," Harold assured him. "Especially if all of those old mattresses are gone."

He followed John inside and froze mere steps from the threshold. _No…_ he thought, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. _No…this can't be…this isn't real…there's no way this can possibly be…_ "Real…?"

"Yeah, it's real," John said, watching as his wide-eyed friend took in his surroundings.

"But I don't…" Harold uttered. He was standing in an exact replica of the main room of the Library – his former sanctuary and home base for his work with the Machine. The desk with its array of monitors, the bulletin boards covered in photos, the rows of book-laden shelves – everything was exactly as it had been before the emergence of Samaritan had forced him to abandon it. "How?"

"Some was from memory and the rest came from the files Root included in the Machine's reboot program."

Harold went to the desk. There, beside the mouse pad, was the small burn mark his soldering iron had left when it slipped from his hand one evening while he'd been modifying a motherboard. His legs feeling numb, he sank into the chair behind him, only vaguely aware of the familiar squeak it made as he shifted his weight. "Why?" he asked. "Why did you do this?"

"It's a way of saying thanks."

"You've already given me more than I could have ever hoped for, Mr. Reese," he said, absently rubbing the gold wedding band around his finger. "And now this…I don't know what to say."

"A 'thank you' is usually appropriate in a situation like this, but you're a smart guy, Finch. I'm sure you can think of something profound."

Harold swiveled around to see Sameen, Grace, Lionel, and Bear emerging from within the labyrinth of bookcases.

"You're all a part of this too?"

"It was originally the Machine and Reese's idea, but then we found out about it and it snowballed from there," Sameen replied.

"But why?"

"Payback." When the hacker's expression remained perplexed, she turned to Grace. "We're obviously not speaking the same language today – think you can translate?"

Grace went over to her husband. "You've helped to change the lives of so many," she said, kneeling down and taking his hand. "It's time something nice was done for you."

Harold enveloped her hand within his. "But the Library…"

"We knew how much you missed the old days, so we started talking," John said. "Turns out, we missed them too."

"You have to admit, we had a lot of fun times there."

"You and I remember things very differently, Ms. Shaw."

 _"We also knew how special the Library was to you,_ " the Machine said, its voice coming from a speaker mounted somewhere in the room. _"It wasn't just the place you went to work; it was your sanctuary and your connection to Nathan. When Samaritan forced us out and it was destroyed, it was almost like losing him all over again."_

Harold's eyes widened. _It knew that…?_ He thought, unable to recall ever speaking of this aloud. _How could it have known…how_ couldn't _it not have known…?_

" _The Library was a special place for me too,"_ the Machine continued. _"We spent a lot of time there, you and I."_

"Yes," he agreed. "We did."

 _"You taught me so much – far more than mere programming could have ever done. You were always so attentive and patient. And it wasn't all work; we played games – hide and seek was my favorite."_

The hacker grinned. "It's how we laid the premise for the shadow map. I would essentially hide somewhere in the city and the Machine would have to find me. Yes, those were special times." His smile faded when he realized something was still amiss. "You really remember all this?"

 _"Of course, Harry."_

"But the ICE-9 virus would have destroyed your memory cache."

 _"And it did, but not before Root encrypted a copy and included it in my reboot files. She wanted me to know my origins; how I – how we – all fit together. It's a beautiful story; I'm honored to be a part of it."_

"Okay, this is starting to sound way too much like a greeting card," Sameen muttered under her breath.

 _"Don't listen to Sammy, Harold. She feels the same way I do; expressing sentiment is something we're still working on."_

"We want to thank you, Finch," John began. "For braving the dark and coming for us when we were certain that nobody would."

 _"Recreating the Library is our gift to you – for your vision, creation, and the sacrifices you made in order to make it a reality. Root and I knew early on that saving everyone was impossible, but you never stopped trying to do the right thing."_

Harold took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "Oh my, I must have gotten into some dust or something…" He looked down when he felt Grace squeeze his knee.

"Does this mean you like it?" she asked.

"Yes…yes…I love it. It's just so perfect…"

 _"The periodical index is at 98.2 percent completion. I'm presently working on locating the other 1.8 percent, but it may take some time. I'm afraid I was unable to acquire some of the rare first editions you once had – I hope later editions will suffice._ "

"Any edition will do just fine."

"And they're all arranged by the Dewy, Cheatem, and Howe system," Lionel proclaimed.

"That's the Dewy _Decimal_ System, Sherlock."

"I knew what the detective meant, Ms. Shaw," Harold said. "This is incredible. I still can't believe how it all came together."

" _And it's not even complete – there's still something missing."_

"What?"

"You."

Harold turned to look at John. "Me?"

"What do you say, Finch? Will you come back to work?"

"To working Numbers? Oh, I…I don't know. I think I'd just be in the way. With the open system, I doubt I'd be of much use."

 _"On the contrary,"_ the Machine replied. " _There have been instances where your hacking expertise would have expedited the identification process. I know it sounds counterintuitive, but sometimes old school is the best way to get results. There are other instances where your knowledge would be useful – probably more than you think. And I do miss seeing that adorable little smile you get when everything comes together."_

He frowned as the Machine's voice seamlessly went from serious to flirty. "Actually, I was planning to retire."

"And do what?" Sameen asked, knowing the hacker was about as likely to retire as John. "You're a Type A personality whose idea of downtime is running a full system diagnostic of a multifaceted network. You'd be bored within a week and then what? Would you pick up golf? Fishing? Or maybe you could check out the cribbage club down at the local community center."

"A buddy of mine tried retirement last year. It was less than three weeks before he and his old lady were at each other's throats," Lionel said. "Now he's back to working part time in the evidence lockup just to get some peace."

"It's not that I don't want to…I just…working with Numbers can be dangerous. I have more than myself to look out for now."

"Harold," Grace said. "You're not exactly the type that takes foolish risks."

"And you don't have to chase after Numbers if you don't want to – Reese, Fusco, and I can handle that while you run interference and worry from here. It'd be just like old times."

He sighed and shook his head. He was losing the argument, but that's not what bothered him the most; it was that he was _glad_ to be losing it that disturbed him. They were all right. His skills were still valuable, retirement wasn't something he was seriously ready to consider, and risk taking was more impulse than habit – so what was his problem?

"You know, a friend once told me that I needed a purpose," John said. "More specifically, that I needed a job."

"Sounds like a wise friend."

The ex-op nodded. "He can be a little bullheaded at times, but I try not to hold it against him."

"If this is something you want to do, Harold, then do it," Grace urged.

"You really wouldn't mind?"

"Not at all. In fact, it's something I _want_ you to do," she said. "Listen to your friends – they need you and want you to come back. You've tried other things and managed to get by, but helping people is what you do best. It's in your blood – don't deny yourself fulfillment."

He reached out and touched her face. "But you fulfill me."

She smiled. "And you me, but there are other forms of fulfillment that we need in order to be happy."

"So are you in, Finch, or what?"

 _"It won't be the same without you, Harry…"_

Harold looked around at the replica of the Library that had been created for him. Grace was right – there were different forms of fulfillment. He had his soul mate, his friends, and now the opportunity to renew his purpose was at hand. "Yes, Ms. Shaw," he said. "I'm in."

The close-knit group of friends was in the midst of commending the hacker's decision when John's phone rang. Excusing himself, he stepped away to take the call.

"So, this is what the famed Library looked like," Lionel said when things had settled down again.

"The main room, yes. There were several other floors in the original, but this one was the most…well, infamous," Harold replied. "It's such an accurate representation – it's almost eerie how exact things are."

"It reminds me of the library at the high school I went to. I spent a lot of there."

"Oh? Did you go there often to study?"

"Naw. Detention. I still remember the old plug that used to sit at the front desk too – Mrs. Hinkle." The detective shuddered. "The guys and I had some pretty creative nicknames for that crusty old battleaxe…"

Harold was trying to think of something to say that would discourage the other man from sharing further when John reappeared. There was no need to ask to who had called; the subtle, boyish grin on the younger man's face told him everything he needed to know. "I trust Ms. Morgan is well?"

"She's fi…" John looked him sideways. "How did you know I was talking to Zoe?"

 _"Harry isn't the only one who's expressions give them away, John."_

"What?"

"It means you get this really dopey look on your face whenever you're around Zoe," Sameen said.

"No, I don't."

"Yeah, you do. It's disgusting."

"Don't tease, Sam," Grace chided gently. "I think it's sweet."

Sameen rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Look, we're all heading over to Snapdragon – that Chinese buffet in town – for lunch. Fusco's paying – he just doesn't know it yet. You guys in?"

"I just read about them in the paper last week," Harold said. "They're supposed to have one of the most extensive sake collections in the state. Yes, I would love to come. Mr. Reese?"

The ex-op shook his head. "I can't – Zoe's waiting for me."

"Ah, so the big secret's out. I don't know, Reese. You still tire out pretty quickly; you sure you're up for that kind of activity?"

"What kind of activity we talking about, Shaw?" he asked, seeing the teasing glint in her eye.

Harold cleared his throat. "Perhaps this isn't the most appropriate conversation to be having before lunch – or anytime for that matter."

"Sorry to make you uncomfortable, Finch."

Grace chuckled and tugged on Sameen's arm. "Come on. Let's go so we can beat the lunch rush. Coming, sweetie?"

"Go on ahead – I'll be there in a minute." Harold waited until the others had gone before turning to his friend. "May I ask where you and Ms. Morgan are going?"

"Zoe's rented a lakeside cabin in Vermont. It's private, comes with a boat, a hot tub, and the brochure said the sunsets are epic. Whatever that means."

"I wish you had said something sooner – we would have let you use our place in Tuscany."

"Neither of us felt like traveling very far" John replied, shrugging into his jacket. "Vermont is close, but still out of the way."

Harold caught a glimpse of silver around his friend's neck. The younger man still chose to wear the St. Michael's necklace that the agent who'd pulled him off the roof had given him. Whether it was out of respect of a fellow soldier or something more complex, he couldn't say for certain.

"Mm. It sounds nice – relaxing. I'm glad you reached out to her – you're both good for each other." The hacker got to his feet and looked around at the reproduction of the Library. "I still can't get over this."

"For all you've done, it's the least we could do."

The two men headed for the door. "How long will you be gone?" Harold asked.

"The rental is for a few weeks. If we make it that long."

Harold nodded. He knew work came first for both agents and that it was the main reason a deeper relationship hadn't formed between them. He silently hoped that now – with the Machine largely governing itself and able to recruit assets as needed – the two would reconsider being more than just good friends. "Will you promise me something, John?" he asked as they entered into the stairwell.

"What?"

"That if you find yourself in need of more time away, you'll take it."

"There's a lot of work to be done," he said, starting down the stairs.

 _"And there always will be, John,"_ the Machine said. _"People are going to keep putting themselves into harm's way whether we're there to stop them or not. For a while I wondered if people would change their ways if they knew the bullet they dodged the day we brought down Samaritan, but I ultimately decided against it. Humanity is flawed in that sense – some do learn from their past mistakes, but they're in the minority._

 _"With that said, live your life – both of you. There will always be plenty of people who need saving when you feel like coming back."_

"I don't think I could have said it any better myself," Harold said, as they stepped off onto the ground level landing.

"Well, not as sensually anyway," John replied with a grin. He went to open the door when Harold put a hand out to stop him.

"You haven't answered my question, Mr. Reese."

"I'll tell you what, Finch," he began. "I'll agree to your terms if you agree to mine."

"I'm listening."

"I'll take the time I need if you promise to call me if something big comes up."

"Define big."

"End of the world, big."

Harold took a moment to consider the offer. With Samaritan destroyed and the Machine looking out for itself, he felt quite confident the world would be safe without John Reese's presence on the streets – for a few more weeks anyway. "All right. That sounds reasonable."

With the issue settled, John pushed open the door. The ground floor of the townhouse was a far cry from the two above it. Little had been done to convert the large space from its former storage unit set up.

"I don't know why it surprises me what people will spend their lives collecting only to abandon it when something new comes along," he said, peering into the open units as they walked by. "Do you have any plans for down here?"

"Not really. I might just leave it like this – it's not hurting anything."

"True as that may be, but I'd rather not have to walk through this every day. It's dark, dusty, and…" He paused briefly as they walked by a unit full of random mannequin parts. "A bit unsettling."

"I think it gives it class." John saw the frown on his friend's face deepen. "I don't know. I was thinking of offering it to Grace."

"Grace?"

"She said her only regret about your new place is that it's not big enough for a studio."

"My plan was to have an outbuilding built for that purpose, but this would be considerably larger than anything we could put on our property."

John stopped by the door and took his motorcycle helmet from a hook on the wall. "Do you think she'd like it?"

"I think she'd love it."

"Then it's hers."

"Are you sure? It's a significant amount of space to give up."

"I have all the space I need upstairs," he replied, leaning against the door. "And if I need more, I'll just come down and hang out with you."

Harold turned to take another look at the room. He saw it not as it was, but as it could become. Bright and open with walls full of framed canvases, he could almost smell the tinge of paint in the air. "John, I have no doubt that your generosity is going to make Grace incred…" His expression of gratitude came up short when he realized John had already stepped out.

 _"You know the Big Guy isn't overly fond of the mushy stuff,"_ the Machine said.

"I just hope he knows how much this means to Grace and I."

 _"He does and he's happy to do it. For an accomplished killer, the man has a heart of gold. He was a good find. I don't think we'd be where we are today without him. I know it hasn't always been easy, but…"_

"But the best things in life seldom are." He looked back out over the room. "There's just so much potential here…" he uttered, thinking not only of the new space, but of the Library as well.

 _"I know you're eager to roll up your sleeves and start the demolition, but you might want to postpone it until after lunch. You know how cranky Sam gets when she's hungry."_

Indeed, he did.

Harold drew in a deep breath of the clean smelling air as he stepped out into the warm day. So much had happened over the last couple of years – they'd seen the rise and fall of Samaritan, bid farewell to some amazing friends, and endured when survival seemed impossible. Despite it all, they had somehow emerged into what appeared to be a happy ending – or as close to one as a group of shadow walkers could come.

The others were gathered at the other end of the long driveway. As he started down to meet them, he saw Grace raise both hands to her face for a moment before throwing her arms around John's neck. He'd apparently offered her the bottom floor of his townhouse and it looked like she'd accepted.

"Harold!" she called when she saw him approaching. "Harold! Did you hear the news?"

"I did."

"I think it's even big enough for a studio _and_ a gallery! John, I can't thank you enough!" She stood on tiptoes to give the ex-op a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying off in the direction of the car.

"Where are you going?" Harold called after her.

"To get my phone! I have to tell Taffy the news!"

Sameen's eyebrows rose. "Taffy?"

"She's the department head at the school," the hacker replied. "They've become fast friends. She's nice, but a bit eccentric if you ask me."

"Takes one to know one, Finch," John said, patting him on the shoulder.

"You sure you can't come to lunch? It's all you can eat. Between you, me, and Ms. Personality, I think we could eat them out of business."

"You and Shaw don't need my help to do that, Fusco," John said. "We'll hook up when I get back – assuming you two don't over-eat your welcome today."

Bear appeared at his feet and sat down with a low whine. John knelt and lifted the dog's drooping head so he could look him in the eyes. "Miss me already, don't you? I'd bring you along, but someone responsible needs to stay behind to hold down the fort. Think you can keep Finch and Shaw in line while I'm gone?"

The Malinois' tail began to beat on the ground and his tongue flashed out, catching his handler across the face. With an affirmative 'woof', Bear returned to Sameen's side and gazed up at her with an expression that said, "I'm watching you".

"Be safe out there, Mr. Reese," Harold said, cringing inwardly as the words left his mouth. He'd meant to say something more benign like 'travel safe', but once a worrier, always a worrier, and his concerns got the better of him. It wasn't John's fault that he often found trouble; he was simply the type that ran toward danger, rather than away from it. "But – above all – relax and try to have some fun."

"I will, Finch. _We_ will."

"There's that dopey grin again."

"Don't have too much fun without me, Shaw."

"Don't worry – I'll save you some kneecaps," she said with a wink.

John's grin widened. "See you guys in a few weeks," he said, heading for his motorcycle parked at the curb. He took a moment to check the saddlebags he'd packer earlier. They were fuller than how he typically traveled, but the extra clothes inside had a higher purpose – protection for a fine bottle of wine and an even finer bottle of whisky.

Satisfied his cargo was secure, John swung his leg over the seat and fired off the engine. As he waited for it to settle, he slid on his helmet and lowered the visor. With the bike purring happily beneath him, he gave his friend's a casual wave, revved the engine, and drove away.

Harold watched him leave. It was hard to see him go, but at the same time, he was happy to see him going. Although John hid it well, the hacker knew that coming so close to death, the severity of his injuries, and the difficult recovery had all taken their toll. It was understandable that the younger man needed some time away to finish healing and reconnect with himself. He was glad John had chosen Zoe to keep him company, rather than facing whatever hurdles may arise alone.

"He'll be fine," Sameen said.

"I know."

"And he'll be back."

"I know."

"But you're still going to worry, aren't you?"

"Old habits die hard, I'm afraid."

" _Relax, Harry,"_ the Machine said, speaking to him privately. _"I'll be keeping my eye on him."_

Although it didn't sound like much, this simple reassurance was enough to lessen the weight of his concerns. The Machine was good for its word and always on duty, looking for signs of danger and employing subtle ways to intervene. He doubted John could find much trouble at a private cabin in the woods, but it made him feel better knowing that an omniscient guardian would have his back.

"I know," he said, earning a confused look from Sameen. Sighing, he offered her a small smile to show all was well. "I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. Shall we go?"

* * *

Samaritan had taken something from each of them; some could be recovered with time, while others were gone for good. The one thing the radicalized super computer hadn't been able to take, however, was the unbreakable bond that the group of unlikely friends shared. The trials of leading a shadowed life may have caused them to suffer in body and mind, but as long as they were together, they had strength, and with that, hope would never be lost.

* * *

*End*

(Aug 10, 2016 – Oct 19, 2017)


End file.
